Preposterous Accoutrements
written by Shiney Barbthorn - illustrated by Margaret and nhaingen
Notes
Howdy-ho, folks! This here might just be my swan song to the South Park fandom. It's the greatest thing I think I've probably ever done in my seventeen years, and it's my gift to the lovely people I met during my year in our little Colorado town. It's a pretty crazy thing to look at now, considering the summary is a blurb I wrote once and thought 'hey, if I wrote that it'd be cool.' I'm not much of a writer! I usually draw things! I've never topped 21000 words before!
I'm moving along as I sometimes do, to the Steam Powered Giraffe fandom simply because the literal people in the actual band have personally gone out of their way to acknowledge me and brought me a lot of happiness and I just don't think I fit in very well here, whereas SPG is fitting me like a second skin. But I'll still be around, and I really hope you enjoy the fic I've put so much blood, sweat and tears into. It was a journey. Enjoy!
Everybody's had one of those days when the world can just get on its knees and suck your balls. It's pointless to deny it, because someone's going to ask your friends, and then everyone will know that you had a day where you were an asshole to everything because everything was an asshole to you. I'm not talking about bad days. I'm just talking about days where you contracted a really bad case of apathy because feeling things wasn't worth it.
Know what I'm talking about? Okay, take 365 days like that, sandwich them all together, season them with leap days and holidays to taste, and you'll have my life. Yes, really.
My morning starts with a massive throbbing hangover squatting dead in the middle of my skull. It's fucking ridiculous that I barely even get buzzed anymore, that I remain so very stoic and don't even so much as stutter after an unseemly number of drinks, but I can still wake up feeling as much like scum as I did the first time I freaked and binged. Sure, I've gotta start early and hit it hard to ignore the stuff I do for money, but really, if I have to pay in hangovers I ought to at least be getting a little fun out of the deal.
"Oww, fuck," I inform the empty room, clamping a hand to my forehead as if it'll stop my brain from rattling as I get to my feet. My hair's a wreck, that much I can feel, and I've got eyeshadow sanding away at my eyelids. I snatch a liably filthy plain gray tee off the floor and pull it on, not bothering to find pants because fuck you, it's my house and no one's going to bother me just because I'm big-boned on this property without a harassment suit.
The curtains are closed, due to the existence a very thoughtful and considerate Cartman the night before, but there are no such precautions in the hallway outside of my room. Oh, God, the light burns, I'm going to move into a cave with a colony of salamanders. "Mom, you home?" I rumble drowsily, my voice the audible manifestation of a road that really, really needs a fresh coat of tar and a few boulders to fill out the potholes. It hurts my ears to listen to, and that's not just because of the headache.
There's no response. I can literally hear the birds chirping through the walls. As her absences picked up more and more, from the time I was fifteen, I've resigned myself to the fact that even if she is the best mother ever when she's around, when she's not doing that, Mom's probably out whoring around somewhere.
Well, Ma, like mother, like son, huh? At least I know how to make a quick buck in a pinch.
At the bottom of the stairs there's carpet, and then the carpet segues into the kitchen and a loud meow sounds from somewhere near my feet, which to my bedraggled eardrums sounds a bit like someone breaking a cello in a friendly way. I jump, then groan in mingled pain and exasperation. "Jesus, Frau, what the hell are you doing." Fraulein looks up at me with her colossal green eyes and mews again, and it strikes me that this is, indeed, the cutest goddamn cat ever, and I just can't stay mad at her. She fits nicely into the crook of my arm, almost as if it was made for her, and she likes to put her little paws on my gut and hang on with her claws so she doesn't fall down, which can only be described as adorable.
People are always, whoa, you have a pet that you don't abuse mercilessly? But I'm just, dude, I seriously love cats. They're like my only friends. They don't even complain when you make them taste-test your food to make sure no Jew spit is in it or anything.
I blunder my way into the kitchen and find my favorite hat exactly where it should be, which is good, because I probably would have just kept blindly grabbing around the table until I knocked over Mom's pussy-ass flowers and slashed my hand open on the glass. Fraulein is still clinging into my shirt for all her worth and I dump her (gently) on the counter, leaving her to wonder just what the hell I'm doing not feeding her first as I crack my eggs for breakfast, really hardcore wishing I didn't have to do this today. You'd think at least one of it would get used to this routine.
My eggs-over-don't-give-a-damn-so-long-as-they're-edible are only halfway done before I'm repeatedly growling 'fuck it' at escalating volumes and pouring every kind of cereal we own into the biggest bowl I can find. The damn things start burning while my back is turned, and I end up turning the gas the wrong way, crusting them to the pan in a matter of seconds, making a noise like I've been rubbed the wrong way with a cheese grater, flinging the whole mess into the sink, and blasting cold water all over them, leaving me with the whole front of my shirt soaking cold and Fraulein with some unexpected protein for breakfast.
She mewls thankfully, though, which makes the whole thing just a little bit better. Damn straight, I am the freaking hangover god, and I deserve respect. This cat should give out lessons on how you treat Eric Motherfucking Cartman. I could pass out fliers to a few 'certain individuals.'
Fruity Pebbles and Reese's Pieces is an excellent combination. Unfortunately I also managed to get a handful of Mom's Grape Nuts and the whole thing has this groty yeasty aftertaste. What's even up with Grape Nuts? They're not even good. Cereal is supposed to be sweet.
At some point I turned on the radio, and though I'm not sure exactly how that happened it's good white noise, playing quietly in the background as I sit alone at the table and stare out the window with my eyes half-closed. There's this really disgusting sound from the sink, and while I know it's just Frau eating her egg I keep wanting to make sure there isn't a strange middle-aged man jacking off to me eating breakfast. Lady Gaga doesn't quite have the power to keep the prickles from going up my neck, as much of a flawless heroine as she is. By the time my bowl is empty (way too soon) I'm pretty much back in the world of the living, the perpetual paranoia resulting from imagined fetishists skulking around a very effective wakeup call.
Of course, it isn't an antidote to the jackhammer in my brain. Seriously, I'm starting to just want to unscrew my eyeballs like on that stupid alien show and dump bleach directly in there. But that would be mighty ungrateful to all the trouble I went through to get my eyes to see more than three feet in front of my nose without glasses. I settle for taking three Advil, which won't do a goddamn thing, but fuck, who needs a liver these days anyway, they make the day a little easier.
I pull out the half-can of cat food from the fridge and set it in Fraulein's dish, not bothering to dish it out. She can lick out the inside edges all by herself, thank you. It's kind of funny, how this is too much fucking work for me already, how I soon enough find myself jadedly flipping through the triple-x channels on the couch because there's nothing to do and yet I'm not bored. Back when we first graduated, I had so much trouble finding shit to do, even with my burgeoning little 'problem' with bars. I didn't have a job, I didn't have a car, I didn't have a college. All I had was a kitten and a whole lot of friends who disappeared post-graduation. But now I have all that and a healthy dose of don't give a damn, and it makes a world of difference. Well, rephrase that. I also now have a 'job'; as in, I do something habitually that earns me a sum of money. But I am in no way affiliated with any sort of labor regulation. In fact, if they caught wind of me, I'd really be up shit creek.
Seriously, though, fuck the police. If my life by day is going to consist of eating, sleeping, and playing various video games for ten-hour stretches (this week's pick: Fable 2) and by night of drinking, wearing a miniskirt, and disappearing into the back rooms with whoever supplies my paycheck, then goddamn it, I should have that right.
Porn is fucking lame these days. I swear the ones Kenny snuck to us were better eight or ten years ago, back before I knew half the stuff that was going on, let alone would have guessed that I'd end up doing it. Now it's just, like, 'Oh, look, a man wearing a horse costume is giving a woman with a two-foot neon green dong a blowjob, how interesting.' Is this a fetish? I find myself mildly confused and switch over to my Xbox.
When a decade-old video game is more interesting than your voyeurism, you know it's time to find a new job.
It's so easy to lose track of time, when there's absolutely nothing on your plate for the rest of the day. It scares the hell out of me when Fraulein jumps up and snuggles onto my belly, but I end up feeling like Mark Antony the bulldog (or, rather, Cthulhu; maybe this is karma for all the times I totally invaded the dark lord's personal space). There's this little two-year-old tabby dust ball purring away on me, totally loving and trusting, begging for attention that Kyle and Stan and those assholes wouldn't wish on their enemies, and here I am with my eyes glazed over and my mouth hanging open, teeth unbrushed, not having showered for two days, bashing things to pieces with a virtual hammer in my boxers. No regrets, bitch.
I'm starting to realize that there's not much left to unlock in Albion that I even want. I'd like to blame that fact on my playing it in seventh grade, but to be honest I've been averaging six hours a day for three weeks, and besides, I deleted my old character. I'm basically chasing myself in huge circles and wiping out wave after wave of respawned enemies and oh, whoops, look, it's lunchtime.
I feel a twinge of guilt when I have to wake her up and push Frau off of me, but she recovers quickly and trots behind my heels. The city of Fridgeville is populated by a nearly empty bottle of orange juice, dated egg salad, Mom's nut bars, and a plate that used to belong to Powdered Donut Surprise but I ended up just leaving in there for her because I suck at doing dishes. The cabinets aren't any better, just a few crumbs in the bottom of a tortilla chip bag, which is, like, disgusting anyway, stupid hippie rabbit food. I stand up with a sharp groan. "Mom! Why haven't you gone shopping!"
I listen intently for the response. Frau looks at me like I'm crazy. Oh.
Goddamn it. I just wanted to stay home and play video games, is that so much to ask? Now I have to put on actual pants and walk all the way to the market on an empty stomach. I fucking hate everything; this is the worst day ever.
I find the shittiest-looking pair of jeans I own just to spite the world and grudgingly shrug on my good old jacket, not bothering to do the little latchy button things. I skip the gloves, which actually feels weirder than wearing them for no real reason. I know I don't have to wear my winter clothes whenever I leave the house, I know that Mom's not going to dress up her little pookums anymore, but if a one-year habit is hard to break, then one that's old enough to get laid is way, way harder. Pun completely and totally intended.
Slush instantly sinks through my super-sweet sneakers, the product of the clear sky and blinding sun that I literally cringe at the sight of. It's getting warmer out. Summer week is going to show up pretty soon, I think. Which means my birthday is soon. Sweet.
I'm gonna be twenty, though. Not quite so sweet.
Not too many folks out right now. They're smart, because the slush is everywhere and it's cold as a witch's tit and everything is disgusting. I jam my hands in my pockets to keep them from flipping the bird to all the haughty assholes in their high-class cars passing me. My mouth takes over the resentment in my hands' stead, as per usual. "Douchebags, think they're so great just 'cause they're driving. See how smart they feel when they crash. They'll be sorry then."
A man pauses and gives me the strangest look, like he's never even seen me before or something. "What the hell's your problem?"
"Shut up, Mr. Garrison, you don't even matter." I snarl at him and keep walking.
You know, the bastard's probably the reason why our class turned out all faggy, we warned our parents and everything and even now he still gets to prance around and bug us even though he's fucking retired. Just to clarify: retired, as in, no longer even remotely involved in his graduated class's lives. The nerve of some people.
The warm air of South Park Central Market is the first nice non-feline thing to happen to me all day. It's way more crowded than the streets outside, proving that some people do have the sense to come in from the cold after all. I just want to grab food for now and for dinner and go home and sleep. People piss me off so much.
I almost want to use one of the wheely carts to exert as little effort as possible, but I don't plan on filling the whole thing, and besides, with the knots of congestion in the aisles it looks like more trouble than it's worth. Basket in tow, I skip the produce section entirely, heading straight for the meat and trying to avoid any uncomfortable eye contact with people I don't want to talk to in the Town Where No One Ever Fucking Leaves.
You ever just think about how many packages of meat boast about how little fat they have nowadays? It's annoying, lean meat is total shit. You're better off eating the package for all the flavor it offers. I grab the fattiest ground beef I can find, which still looks about as appetizing as ground spleen, and steer towards the noodles. Some little girl is in the middle of the alley, picking up a bunch of cans she apparently threw all over the place, and I have to resist the urge to play kickoff with her head.
Whole-wheat lasagna noodles. Identify the problem with that phrase. These hippies and their cardboard food, they might as well just go to a restaurant and eat the goddamn menus. Between the crowd and the unwelcome intrusions on my diet, it takes me an unreasonable amount of time to find all the things I need to cook hamburgers and lasagna, and I am just about ready to grab one of the generic store brand marshmallow holders and make myself an eyeball shish kebab if I have to be here one second longer.
So of course the world decides to make the only open cash register the one manned by Pip, who has obviously made it so far in the world. Of course.
"Well, there's a familiar face!" Pip says cheerily in that soul-burning accent of his, waving a hand from behind the counter.
"Well, there's a French failure," I growl under my breath, though I sort of hope he hears me and gets the damn hint. He remains oblivious, smile firmly in place between his frayed gray cap and red supermarket apron. I just load my whopping treasure trove of items onto the conveyor belt and put on my best disinterested glower while he tallies them up, until something on his hand catches my eye. "Uh, Pip, why the hell are you wearing a ring? You do realize that even you're not faggy enough to pull that off, right?"
"Hm?" Pip's eyebrows knit and he glances down at the hand in question. "Oh, yes, this! Well, I am a married man, after all."
I'm sorry, I believe the limey piece of crap just said that his life had a trace of meaning. "What."
"You didn't know? I sent you an invitation to the wedding. In the mail, and on Facebook." Pip's smile is now that familiar sort of sad, sort of angry look that people do when they're trying not to call me an insensitive douchebag in public. Not that they're worried about me getting my panties in a twist, it's just that some people can't seem to handle words above 'heck' in offensiveness.
"Sorry, Pip, I guess I just... don't... really... care... about your life." I pronounce every word carefully, staring him dead in the face because it has been a decade and I am still totally seriously about that fact.
This is the part where, if there were dodgeballs behind the counter, I'd have a broken nose and Pip would still be grinning like a psychopath. "Yes, well then, maybe you'd just like to pay for your groceries so that Millie and I can raise our own productive members of society," he says, sounding like sweet tea with poison. That was actually a pretty sick burn, for him. Our little frog is growing up, apparently...
Wait, Millie? The hick? What does she have to do with... Oh, yeah. He's straight. I forgot. It kind of makes sense, that the two poor-as-dirt heavily accented social outcasts would hook up and, without a care to their incomes, start increasing the overpopulation by the age of twenty, selfish bastards.
"Cartman," says Pip clearly, like I'm some sort of idiot. I realize that I've been staring at the readout for about twenty seconds, like 18.43$ is the meaning of life. Which is, like, twenty seconds, you'd expect me to say something like 5 minutes or something but when you think about it even a minute of stunned silence is a fucked-up-edly long time to just stand there like an idiot.
I shake my head a little. "You need money to pay for things?"
Pip isn't smiling anymore. Fuck. This isn't the first time I've wound up in a supermarket buying things without any means of payment, though this is admittedly the first time I've managed to pull that one off whilst entirely sober. The consequences are far more of a waste of time than I'm willing to deal with. There's a kingdom that needs saving back at the house, anyway. I dig around in the pockets of my jacket, abruptly thankful I wore it. I come up with a crumpled ten and an additional five bucks of change and singles. "Uh." I raise my head, uncomfortable in the rare moment of disadvantage. "I have fifteen dollars."
My cashier fixes me with a hard-eyed stare for agonizing seconds, then sighs and slumps over a bit. "I'll cover the rest, but only because you're still my friend. And there's no one else on line."
"Oh, cool, thanks, Pip." Okay, to be honest, I'm pretty sure that just about everyone can tell when I'm being fake-grateful. It's one of my worse facades. Can't believe he had the gall to call us friends when we've never been anything of the sort, though. If the lies got any more obvious in this checkout line someone would probably have call the zoo to get rid of the elephant in the room. Smile pretty, Cartman. Give the man your money, Cartman. Choke down the vomit, Cartman.
I'm away from one annoyance for all of three seconds before I'm confronted with the next. I honestly have to carry this freezing fucking bag of hamburger home with my bare hands. Now I'm wishing I had my gloves, but I guess you can't win them all. My stomach tosses up a protesting growl on the way out of the market and back into the blinding sun. Yeah, bud, I don't want to be doing this either. In fact, I don't even want to be alive today. I wish I was a badger. I could just crawl into my little hole in the ground and, like, hibernate for a day, that would be so cool. Even if I did have to skip lunch. Instead, I have to settle for an overwhelming and all-too-familiar loathing for absolutely fucking everything on the face of the fucking planet and even those fucking Marklars or whatever.
Goddamn, do I need a fucking smoke.
You know something may not have gone ideally in your life when you start wondering what it's like to walk in on you in the bathroom, especially if you're a six-foot-tall dude who can do his own makeup better than most girls his age, wearing a zebra-print miniskirt and tights during the moment in question.
But then you realize that fuck you, I've got enough money to purchase such quality titles as Lollipop Chainsaw every week and I don't even have to do anything except suck the occasional dick. Also, yes, Webster's has officially declared the meaning of 'occasional' to now be 'several, on a nightly basis.'
I always get here early. People must think I'm quite the barfly, but it's just a hell of a lot more... I don't know, as dignified as cross-dressing can be, to not have anyone poking around before I put my big girl panties on. Honestly, how uncomfortable would you be to have the mental image of the run-of-the-mill 20-year-old unemployed guy pre-makeup while you're necking with what you'd otherwise think was just an especially shorthaired slut?
I put the final touches on my turquoise eyeshadow and double check that my leopard print strapless isn't all hung up on anything like it likes to get. I have quite the respectable wardrobe by this point, but it's sort of like how you can't pretend you're Slash if you don't have a top hat. There's an outfit for the profession, and it is assorted animal prints and stringy stockings. You could wear something else, and you do, but it's just not as iconic.
- margaret -
Kirby's looks a lot better at night. You can draw the curtains as much as you want, but there's still daylight leaking in around the edges, making it painfully obvious that this is just another poor-as-dirt Colorado bar in the middle of nowhere. Once the sun goes down, you can pretend, with the local DJ up on the stage and the dusky lights, that, even though you can't see more than two feet in front of your face, this is a hip place to be, on the cutting edge of counterculture.
With real, female tricks and everything. Wow. What a concept.
But the reality is, this place is a metaphorical dead end at the literal dead end of a half-hour bus ride, so I just sashay my way over to my spot at the far end of the bar, pop my earbuds into my ears, crank the gospel of Our Lady of Gaga, and light up. The urge to reject more or less anything that comes into contact with my throat is so far gone I could probably be a fire eater. Kirby's taking the day off, which is just so goddamn surprising. The bastard's lazier than me. At least it means I won't have to face any veiled blackmail threats about a cut of my profits in exchange for not blowing my operation out of the water tonight. Pretty sure he knows I ain't old enough to drink, despite the fact that I've earned my gills several times over, too. But it means that skinny little elegant bartender in training is here, which is cool with me. He's the kind of dude I'd give a discount. Maybe even I wouldn't make him pay; maybe I'd pay him instead- I've always liked the male model type.
Did I forget to mention I'm pretty much into guys? Oh, right, the biggest fucking shocker you've ever heard. The crossdressing cocksucker sucks cock. Sorry. I just ruined the story. I'll try to insert a narrative spoiler alert next time I have to drop a bombshell like that one.
I've already got a drink in my hand by the time the first cluster of guys trickles into the bar, already got a couple empty glasses in front of me when the evening really picks up. It's remarkable how easy it is to get a fake ID within a few hours in Denver's seedy underbelly. It's also remarkable how much traffic this little slice of nowhere gets. In no time the air's thick with smoke, which is annoying because it makes me want to smoke the remainder of this pack, which is bad because I kind of spent all my money-for-cool-shit on a huge signed poster of the goddess that is Gaga and actually I'm pretty much broke for a while taking meals into consideration, which pisses me off because cigarettes aren't necessary but they certainly help me not bash together the heads of the next two guys who pad my pockets. It's really a simple lesson in cause and effect when you think about it: no nicotine equals angry drag queen.
But the universe throws a bone around then and I find myself in the middle of chatting up, or, rather, being chatted up by, a guy who really needs to retouch his silver roots. He looks eerily familiar, as well as way too old for me under normal circumstances, and the only thing keeping me blank-faced and ass firmly glued to my seat is the suit he's wearing and the watch around his wrist.
"... and so I told the bitch, maybe if you didn't want me to hire them, you shouldn't have backed the car into the pool!" Grandpa brays loudly, and for so long that he almost chokes on his next sip of cosmopolitan and gets it all over his silk tie. Lovely.
I try to smile, but I'm pretty sure it comes out more like a sneer. "Oh, haha. So let me get this straight, you're living in a hotel because... your wife crashed your car into a pool and then you called a wrecking crew in hopes of somehow getting it out and they took down your house?" He nods and I realize I'm forgetting to sound interested, rather than just totally baffled at how a man could be this stupid. "That's pretty crazy, babe."
"Yeah, well, she's pissed. Got her panties in a knot, ya know how it is, don't you? Who needs the horsey skank, anyway. I'd much rather take you back to my room later..." I swear this bastard just batted his eyelashes at me. "So what can I call ya, sugar? Angel, Winona, Brandy? Just don't tell me your name's Rebeccah," he finishes with a grin, in the deluded self-amusement of the drunk. Not to mention he looks entirely sincere, and does not appear to give an actual fuck that he's trying to commit adultery with a trick half his age.
I realize two things so close to each other that it makes my head spin. The first is that this guy actually thinks I'm a bona fide chick, which means he's either blind, inexperienced, really drunk, or some combination of the three. The second is that the current mayor of Denver has a wife by the name of Rebeccah. I recoil in my seat, the true repulsiveness of this man finally shining through. "Oh, Christ." I've dropped that stupid faggy fake accent that I've been told makes me sound normal, not to mention sent my voice down into its normal octave, but there is no fucking way I'm doing jack with this guy, no matter how much he pays me, so if he doesn't like my voice he can... uh, not suck my balls. "Even I have standards, dude."
I can just watch his face fall, and he stalks off muttering something about how all women have their heads so far up their own asses that they can see China, which I don't even want to think about. I'm alone for not more than five minutes before a cluster of stoner college kids hover around, let me bum a free light, and immediately start asking me if I'd mind posing for their newspaper. On video. With all three of them. Clothing optional. And no camera.
Holy Christ, either I'm in a bad mood or the usual clientele is less shitty. I need to go powder my goddamn nose.
I calmly excuse myself and flounce off to the little boys' room, checking to make sure no potential clients are in here before retrieving my swag bag (fact: makeup touchups are the swaggiest thing known to man) and digging through it for maybe an extra pack, hopefully, maybe. I don't want to break into my weed stash just yet, seeing as it's still only... nine fucking thirty? Jesus Christ, and I've got a long night ahead of me. If things keep up like this I'll be needing it, and I can't say I'm sure where and how my next fix will be coming from. Oh, bother, drat, darn it all anyway.
At least I've got a few left. I wander out into the cool night air, where you can hear, when the wildlife is quiet enough, the traffic noise from nearby Denver, a sort of calming mechanical murmur. It's so different behind Kirby's; you can actually tell this is the middle of nowhere, just a couple of dumpsters against the wall and then boom, nothing but empty fields till they hit blacktop. Funny, how you only have to take a bus a few miles down the line and your snowy mountain town seems worlds away.
I lean back against the wall, flick my lighter, tilt back my head, close my eyes, and inhale.
I wonder what the guys are doing right now. Probably Stan and Kyle are having a good old fashioned round of nice super fun time, knowing those goddamn ridiculously committed happy romance-movie bastards, and Kenny's probably playing yet another full house. And here I am, in a skirt, burning through my last pack of cigs behind a bar full of skeezy old men I'll probably end up forcing a smile for through a mouthful of dick.
But I can't hear the angry buzz in my head anymore, though, so fuck that noise, I'm cool.
The bar door swings open and shut, agitated footsteps clattering on the ground before stopping abruptly. I can hear breathing, the sort of breathing that says, 'calm the hell down, you're okay, sonny boy/sugar tits.' Funny, no one ever comes out here except me. Maybe it's just that bartender, taking out some trash. It can't be all that important.
Despite myself, I look up. My new guest reveals turns out to be a chick, a skinny-as-shit chick, with the baby blue eyes and spun gold hair of a Swede and an outfit that rivals my own for skimpiness. She's wearing one of those transparent girl shirts over a teal tanktop, both looped so low over her pale shoulders that it's a marvel they're hanging on, and she's got her arms clamped over her (rather unimpressive) chest, looking like she's hanging on to what little scraps of composure she has left for dear life. It's the weirdest thing, I swear I've seen this girl before, but I don't really give a fuck about girls in MY bar as anything but competition for my sweet, sweet money.
I don't know what's got her in such a tizzy, and I can't say that I care. I look down at my red press-on nails, protecting my sadly dwindling nicotine supply from a sudden gust of wind, and pointedly turn back to my own business.
Out of my peripherals, the girl slowly collects herself, releases her arms from around her shoulders, and turns towards me. And fuck, I do know her, or at least she knows me, because her eyes go visibly huge even in the edges of my field of vision before she goes back to that forced calm and says, in a soft, gentle, humbled, lightly Southern-tinged, and distinctly not female voice, "Oh. Um, hey, Eric."
Oh, fuck my ass.
I stare unabatedly. I really, really, do, and I let the ash fall all over my shirt, and I let my eyebrows cramp up from scowling confusedly, because this is a certified Big Thing, and it ain't the good kind, either. Butters motherfucking Stotch just rose from the great beyond, and is now presenting himself in an incredibly realistic wig and a rather dashing miniskirt/tanktop ensemble, and fuck, I really don't need this, not now. And the rivalry with God marches on. "... Hey."
And god damn if I'm not the biggest idiot ever, god damn if he doesn't look back down at the dirty moonlit ground and let me think it's over, god damn if I don't think that I can escape this situation and never have to deal with him again, when I've just hit that plane of false security he says delicately, "Umh... Why are you wearing that?"
Talk about your double standards. I twist my painted lips into a snarl and hunch my shoulders. "I dunno, fuck off. Why are you wearing what you're wearing?"
Butters looks down at his see-through little shirt and picks at the fabric idly. "I just..." He's obviously trying not to seem like he's dodging the question, even though he doesn't want to answer. One of the reasons I don't need him around: he's just way too honest. "I needed to get out of the house for a while, without being found."
- nhaingen -
And here we have all the necessary ingredients for a John Hughes movie, wrought with teenaged drama and angst. Except I'm not asking what his problem is. I don't want to know. No, I really don't want to know. I take a drag, try to leave it there, but there's this prickly feeling eating up the back of my neck, because I know he'll never restate a question even if he still wants to know and that I can't hide jackshit from him. I have apparently lost that once-honed ability entirely. "... Fishnets."
Butters laughs, like I've just spat out the snappy one-liner that made something he said funny. And he starts to look like I remember, all sunshine candy cane gumdrop kingdom, making me want to get the fudge out of here even more. "Haha, yeah..." Butters' face rearranges itself back into a familiar confused expression. "... Wait, what?"
"I like fishnets." I chuck my cigarette butt on the ground and grind it into ashy nonexistence with the toe of my super-sweet yellow sneakers, walking off nonchalantly with my hands in my pockets before realizing I don't actually have pockets and failing to look nonchalant or even walk off in the slightest. I feel like one of those programmable LEGO robots that stop in place and whir their wheels aimlessly if you give them conflicting signals. I'm not on my game at all. I'm at the bottom of the barrel. I hate this feeling. I hate Butters.
I passionately and with all my heart hate Butters, who, noticing my pause of extreme frustration, pushes off the wall a bit and waves a hand. "You're leaving already? Well, okay, then, see you later, Eric!"
"I'd really rather not," I mutter, and I don't care if he hears me. I'm on my way to get good and drunk, stoned, and throat-fucked for a discount, and not necessarily in that order. Anything to kill brain cells, maybe even wipe out that most recent exchange entirely.
The nerve of some people, showing up again after almost two years and fucking up my fucked-up life.
Eric Cartman commented on Kyle Broflovski's Wall.
i neeeeed som mor w333333d ;((((((
Kyle Broflovski replied:
youve got your es/3s in all the wrong places there dude. and why are you telling me this? its almost like you want to get arrested. hm
Eric Cartman replied:
fuck you, kyle. i don't even remember posting that. delete that shit if it pisses you off so bad.
Eric Cartman replied:
also, got any advil that i can come borrow?
Stan Marsh replied:
Cartman.
Stan Marsh replied:
Youre drunk.
Stan Marsh replied:
Get out.
Eric Cartman replied:
says the guy who apparently, though interning to become a teacher and holding down college classwork, has all the time in the world to read and respond to literally everything posted on his boyfriend's wall, but what do i know. ;P
Eric Cartman replied:
also, *you WERE drunk. past tense. do they let you teach english?
Kyle Broflovski replied:
oh my god just stop i knew id regret accepting you.
I may be still mildly inebriated, but I am nowhere near drunk enough to deal with last night's tomfoolery. I think the taxi guy may have either beaten me up or traded his ride for a gross Mexican jerk-off, for the second day in a row I look like hell warmed over, and I am officially out of pot. And Butters is back. Back from where, I don't know, but the whole convoluted thing is just adding up to a big W.W.F. level smackdown between me and reality.
I set my iPhone down with a self-indulgent groan, heave myself out of bed, scrub at what feels like a burgeoning eye infection one-handedly. My jaw hurts pretty damn bad, because you can't tell a paying customer to show some freakin' manners, but that actually seems like the least of my concerns, making the days way back when I thought I had jaw tendonitis seem like treasured childhood memories that one looks back on with a single tear and a loving smile.
Not that I'm wallowing or anything.
But, hey, I made 250 bucks. You'd be surprised at the 'high-class' skeezes who flock in from Denver when they get the brilliant idea to look for sluts outside the cop-protected city area. Of course, cops are just human too; the upper-class socialites could actually learn a thing or two from me about deterring and distracting the authorities, but then they'd have to shell out for that too.
No, but really; 250 bucks for a blowjob from a crossdressing, wasted, slightly overweight dude who flips his absolute shit anytime anything gets within three inches of his rectum. Just stop and think how desperate these poor men must be.
There's a note on the table, practically embroidered with my mom's ridiculously frilly cursive. It takes my addled brain a few moments to decipher, and even then I stumble over myself reading out loud to the one true love of my life, Fraulein.
"'Sweetheart, I cooked you a nice fresh batch of Chicken Chocolate Pie Supreme-' Oh, really? Sweet- 'It's in the fridge. That's the good news.' The good news? What the hell is she... 'You remember you have to be at school today at 3, right?' Huh? No I don't. 'Mommy had to pay a lot of money to get you into driver's ed because you're already graduated.' Oh my god, she didn't do that for real, did she, Frau? This can't be reality- 'So please don't waste it and try to have fun! Mommy misses you and she loves you very much, snookums.'" I set the note down and take a moment to indulge in a very long, very strung-out sigh.
Fraulein responds to this by meowing and pretending my socks are a scratching post.
"How does she manage to be that embarrassing over writing," I mutter, waiting for my cat to be done before scrounging around in my fridge for that pie. Pie for breakfast is a better choice than it sounds like, as chocolate contains natural endorphins, which are exactly what I need to prevent from deliberately seeking out Ike Broflovski and snapping his fucking neck. Killing children is never the answer, Cartman, remember?
Is it bad that that's literally the only thing I can think of having anything to do with that little bastard? I don't need any Broflovskis in my life, either. Or Testaburgers, or Brodericks, for that matter. As great as a job as I've done eliminating actual, you know, feelings and stuff, I really don't need to be popping hate-boners over anything and/or anyone at this point, it just makes things too damn complicated.
And fuck you, young Matthew Broderick was hot as hell.
I really need to take a chill pill with the whole Fable thing. I rediscover my old(ish) copy of Skyrim, which was actually sold to me for cheap by Stan. For everything I say about him, Stan's the closest thing I have to an actual friend these days, even if he was just selling it to me to curb Kyle's addiction so he could get some butt, because Kyle is one of those sad lonely nerds for whom video game addictions take priority over real live free lovey-dovey soulmate sex, apparently.
I mean, sure, he's the one that's getting fucked, but still. He's apparently into that, so.
My good old Orc, Yzz-ahr-Grel, is waiting just within the silver confines of her disc. And okay, originally I was just playing as the ugliest bitch I could figure out how to make to try to be ironic, but then I had to go and give her an actual believable name and get attached to her and now I just don't have the heart to erase her, despite her housewife hair and squished-up black guy nose. Yzz is awesome and cool, and she will never not be my character.
Oh, man, I was saving the Daedric quests for a rainy day, wasn't I? I speed run them, because maybe if I collect all the artifacts Mom will get off my ass about getting behind the wheel of a car that isn't on a ridiculously safe oval track, instead interred in poorly maintained roads and surrounded by idiots. But I only have until three, so maybe I'll just get as many as possible and the universe will strike down Mr. Adler with driver's-ed-opposed lightning in reward of my efforts, a boon of the hopefully totally nonfictional Daedra themselves. Just gotta get to Vaermina- Malog Bal- Mehrunes Dagon- Peryite- Sanguine-
Goddamn it, it's two thirty, and I don't even have the Rose yet.
I wiggle my way into my jacket and mittens like a butterfly in reverse, kiss Frau goodbye, and dart out the door, all in pursuit of not hurting Mom's feelings. I mean, she can do some pretty dumb shit sometimes, but she's still my mom, my aging cokehead mom, and sometimes I'm nice enough to throw her this much of a bone.
Of course, when I discover that my class consists of myself, Mr. Adler on teaching duty, and none other than Tweek Tweak himself, I'm wondering if this bone belongs to a brachiosaur, because it's looking bigger by the moment.
I'm literally as far away as I can be from Tweek without pissing Teacher dearest off, sprawled out on the vaguely squishy new grass and pretending I don't see my single classmate on the verge of a seizure on the other side of this grassy knoll. We're sitting on one of those concrete dividers that get planted with trees in the parking lot of the high school, and Mr. Adler is looking at us like he's expecting some screwing around the likes of which has never been witnessed by mankind.
"Welcome to driving education," he finally says, in that voice that sounds like his mouth is permanently half-full of mashed potatoes.
"Errk!" yelps Tweek, hands knitted into his shirt. So what if he's managing his own coffee store by now, so what if he mostly can pass as a pretty cool guy behind the counter. The second you take him out of his comfort zone, he flips his shit all the way back to third grade.
Wisely ignoring him, Adler marches on. "I've gotten dozens of other kids through this same class, and I'm here to teach you how to not break your necks, but first of all I'm going to need something from you." He adds a laser stare at each of us for emphasis, as if this next part is going to be super-deep and unexpected.
"Oh Jesus, no!" Tweek blubbers.
"Don't screw around," I mutter.
"Promise me you won't screw around," finishes Adler predictably, folding his bulky arms over his downright floppy chest. Tweek looks noticeably relieved. I just roll my eyes.
"So, uh, yeah, do you have the paperwork for me? Just let me fill that out so I can get my permit and get out of here," I say impatiently.
Adler, he who no longer deserves an honorary in front of his name, just stares, scratching his silver combover dully. "Er... Eric, there appears to have been a misunderstanding. This is a hands-on class. I'm teaching you from behind the wheel."
And that strikes fear into my heart like nothing else. Nothing else, that is, sparing the news that we'll each be observing the other's driving from the back seat when not on steering wheel duty. Which means I'm going to be in a car driven by Tweek.
It takes all of my practiced prostitute begging skills to coerce Adler into letting me go first.
The car is a rusty old beater, probably from before the eighties were even in their embryonic state, with state-official STUDENT DRIVER strips looking oddly out of place. Cautiously I step into the driver's side, the car rocking in a way that makes me seriously doubt its structural stability. It repeats this move for Adler, though strangely not for Tweek, but I have neither the time nor the patience to mull that over.
"Eric, have you driven before?" Adler asks, clipboard at the ready.
Yes, at a fucking NASCAR race, you sorry sack of shit. Of course, I maimed all the other contestants, but that's no big deal and wasn't even really my fault for the most part. "Once or twice."
"Okay, well then, show me what you can do." I'm starting to seriously doubt that he's even qualified to be teaching us this, what with his noncommittal responses and all-around cluelessness in every aspect of life, but whatever. I spend an inordinate amount of time messing with the mirrors and the seat positioning, anything to maybe eat up all of my time, until Tweek's involuntary barks of nervousness grow too loud to ignore any longer and I find the keys in the ignition just to put an end to his reverie.
Adler's spewing advice any third grader could tell you at this point, and I'm just slowly easing the little car out and around the empty parking lot (is it Saturday? I guess it's Saturday), trying not to floor the gas or let up too much, averaging a whopping five miles per hour. I almost hit a squirrel at one point, but he runs just in time, which is kind of a downer- I mean, how many people can say they ran something over their very first driving lesson?
I do pretty good up until the part where I have to go in the road a little bit, and then I turn on the windshield wipers and the headlights all at once and don't know how to turn them back off. They don't have that shit at NASCAR.
"Okay, pretty good, Eric," Adler says noncommittally once I've somehow safely gotten us back into the parking lot at a snail's pace. "Tweek, how about you?"
"Uh, can I just, go home now?" I say, gesturing in the direction of my house from my standing position just outside the door of the car. "My mom is, uh, dying of herpes-"
"Part of your grade is observation," Adler says robotically without even looking at me, like he's just reciting, which he almost definitely is. Tweek looks absolutely miserable, like a puppy with mange. He doesn't even have to watch himself, though, so I'm not sure what he's got his knickers in such a twist about.
Would it be inappropriate for me to ask my reformed nicotine junkie, lung cancer risk teacher if he has any Marlboros on him, I wonder. Is it worse to have a panic attack?
Tweek's already in the middle of one before he's even got his seatbelt on. I'm pretty sure I caught something about 'why are you so fat' while he was jerking around his poor seat controls mercilessly, and by the time he's figured out how not to accidentally yank the key out of the ignition by turning it without treating it like the pin of a grenade I am thoroughly prepared to puke my case of nerves out all over Adler's shiny fat scalp. I'm not even offended by that first bit. He's wrong, of course, but I'm too freaked out to be pissy.
"No!" Tweek is whimpering, and I realize that it's in response to the same question I'd gotten, about if he'd ever had any experience with driving. The emotion I'm experiencing at the present moment is what we call a rational phobia, children.
"Well, it's real simple," Adler smothers, reaching out to show Tweek where to put his hands. Tweek instantly makes a strangled sound and retracts all his limbs close to himself, leaving Adler clutching at nothingness. "Er... you just turn the key in the ignition, and shift into drive. Then you put your foot on the gas-"
"Is the gas the right pedal?!"
"Yes, it is, and after that all you have to worry about is steering. It's as simple as that." Adler sits back in his seat, looking like he doesn't at all believe that it is, in fact, as simple as that, and I know he's got his loafers hovering right over the passenger-side special driver's ed brake.
I swallow, hard, and twist my fingers into the doubtlessly filthy upholstery. "Mr. Adler, can I please get out. I'm going to be completely honest here and say that if you don't let me out of here, I'm going to puke day-old whiskey and old man jizz all over the car."
"Stop screwing around!" comes the response from the front seat, and I wonder how I didn't see that coming.
I can literally feel the vibrations through the floorboards as Tweek delicately rests his toes on the pedal. Somehow I've ended up with my hands wrapped around the headrest of his seat, which is also quivering like a wet Chihuahua, but he's hunched so far over the steering wheel that he doesn't even notice. I'm holding on for dear life, too horrified to watch but too scared to stop watching, and then we're moving, slow as fuck, in a line so solidly straight it could be every Republican's darling.
"Is this real life?" I ask no one, quietly, in an impression of another, considerably more well-known demented back-seat boy.
If you listen close enough, you can hear a looping mantra of 'oh god oh jesus' from the dude with the overlarge shirt and the fucked-up hair piloting our vehicle. It does a great job of covering for the lack of radio, surprisingly enough. "That's good, Tweek," Adler says in that voice every single person seems to use when they're trying not to bug out someone who's already pretty bugged out anymore than they already are. "Now see if you can just make it out into the street and back into the parking lot, like Eric did."
"Ohhhh, my god," our chauffeur responds, in a drawn-out panicked hiss. He jerks the steering wheel, but corrects himself just as quickly before I have a chance to hyperventilate, sending us cruising towards the open street. We're cruising for the open street, and I'm literally trapped in a tin box of death piloted by an amped-up paranoid hummingbird. Send help.
"Good, now stop," Adler instructs, and Tweek rams the brakes, content in finally finding something that it doesn't matter if he overdoes at the moment. At a snail's pace, whiplash isn't really a big concern. Tweek's head is swinging back and forth like a video game robot sentry.
"God, someone's coming!" And indeed, someone is coming, in a car that rivals ours for structural instability. I catch a glance in the window as they pass.
Yeah, that Thomas kid, the one with Tourettes? I have just enough time to remember his name before he honks a friendly honk, Tweek screeches bloody murder, and we lunge forward into the street inches away from his back bumper before Adler slams on his brake.
"Jesus Christ! Fuck this, that's fucking it, screw you guys, I'm going home!" Somehow I manage to find purchase on the lock of the door despite its retraction into the plastic shell, somehow I manage to bust out onto the street and start running like hell, somehow I'm making record time before I even hear Adler's strangled yells of "Stop screwing around! You're never going to pass if you keep screwing around!"
And oh my god, by the time I get home, I never want to smell coffee ever again, and I definitely don't want to see another car as long as I live. I just grab my cat and curl up in a ball on the couch and sort of shake for a while, which, while unpleasant, is not altogether an unfamiliar position.
If anyone ever finds out about that, though, absolutely all of their shit can and will be fucked up.
I manage to regain my balls in a matter of minutes, involving a lot of cat-hugging and the swearing off of the company of Tweek Tweak, but I do at least have the decency to leave the eighty bucks for the month of classes I won't be attending on my mom's pillow before I leave that night. She should be damn thankful that I gave up roughly a third of last night's cash, because that money means a lot more to my pockets than it does to hers.
No way in hell she's getting a fucking thank-you note, though.
Friday nights are actually busier than Saturdays. It sounds weird, but apparently after a whole day to relax and drink beer and watch football with their hairy pregnant-man guts hanging out of their wifebeaters, the average Colorado redneck is sufficiently either drunk or relaxed enough to not really spend the evening drinking their paychecks away. It takes almost a half-hour longer for the first potential customers to trickle in, and even then it's a very familiar cluster of obviously skunked college kids who huddle in a corner and honk at each other without even ordering anything.
After a cursory glance at my polished glass tankard, I can quite clearly see that my standard teal eyeshadow clashes badly with my purple sequined dress of the evening, which, admittedly, I wouldn't be wearing if everything else I own wasn't covered with the stench of a thousand desperate men (and even a few women.) So I return to my home base of the restroom and start washing it off to replace with gold, which looks just awful with my skin tone but all my makeup is obnoxious hooker colors so I'm kind of up shit creek on that front. I don't have a washcloth, only a bunch of paper towels that curdle in my hands as soon as water touches them, and this low-quality sludge keeps dripping into my eyes and making them hurt even worse. I sure hope infected blue sclera are attractive.
Even though this is where I spend half my time these days, I really hate public bathrooms. Who wants to be only feet away from someone who's taking a shit, and vice versa? I mean, the privacy walls actually make it worse. You're left with the soundtrack of excrement and your imagination fills in the blanks. And alone, they're too big and empty and filled with the odors of those who were there before. Before I know it, I'm singing under my breath, shaky when my teal fashion disaster makes me wince.
this way i'm feeling i just can't deny
The door swings open and it takes all my effort not to seize up and try to pretend I'm not there. Well, that's one confused guy for the evening. I close my eyes, even though the 'if you can't see them they can't see you' strategy is disappointingly ineffective, and do my best to act like I'm not wearing a cocktail dress and coral-red lipstick, and not fixing my makeup, and I'm just another average dude singing Rihanna songs in an empty bathroom until I hear the footsteps stop without further offense. I guess I can just carry on, then?
we found love in a hopeless place
I guess the one good thing about redoing my eyes is that I can fuck around with the yellow and do stuff that would venture too far into the realm of trashy for my tastes with blue. Honestly, I do still have my pride. I drag the eyeliner out behind the far corners, which makes me look something like a shaved cat, but at the same time it would be kind of cool if I wasn't a guy. I'm not making any Maybelline ads anytime soon, to be sure, but it's almost embarrassing how good I'm getting at this.
as your shadow crosses mine
"You know, you've always had a real nice voice," says my faceless companion from down the row of sinks. I blink at myself a few times before turning to address my audience, and involuntarily let out a sigh of frustration, because if I was confusing in little more than a dress, than this miniskirt-and-heels-wearing, short-blonde-mop-having not-girl is reaching Cheshire Cat tiers of befuddlement. Not necessarily in regards to just how feminine he looks, but how the hell he keeps managing to find me when I'm begging the universe for anything but that to happen.
"Butters, seriously, why are you here?" I say impatiently, tapping my fake nails (pink tonight) on the sink. I don't care if I look ridiculous; I am going to be taken seriously, goddamnit.
"I'm fixing my lipstick!" he responds with a smile, in a voice that just reeks of question-dodging.
"No, you stupid twink, I mean why are you at my bar for the second night in a row in a J-Mart miniskirt?" I cross my arms over my chest and just glare.
Butters' smile wavers, one of his hands rubbing the opposite forearm nervously. "Um... Well, to tell the truth, I don't have a job, so... I'm here to... you know, make some money," he mumbles, blushing for real under his fake pink cheeks, his eyes flickering towards the scummy tiles.
I deepen my glare. "You're whoring."
Butters winces like someone pulled a punch inches from his face. "Well, um... I guess I am." He raises his gaze and looks at me earnestly. "But I swear it's just for the money!"
"I don't care why you're doing it, asshole! I care where you're doing it! This is my territory!" I snap at him, doing my best to seem as big and as looming as possible. Which, okay, is probably not entirely fair, seeing as I'm about half a foot taller than him and twice as heavy, but it's his fault for being such a twiggy little fairy, anyway. "You aren't getting a dime of my profits!"
Butters blinks up at me, looking apologetic but surprisingly not backing down in the slightest. "Gee, I'm sorry, Eric. I didn't realize that I wasn't the first one to think of it, but I really, really do need some money right now. I don't have enough to even pay for rent or groceries, and I promise if I had had a little more time to plan I would have, but do you think we could work something out?"
"I don't care about your sob story, Butters," I growl. "All I care about is who wants their dick sucked, and who gets paid for doing it. The first one changes, but I promise you, the answer to the second one will always be me. Got it?"
Okay, I really don't like the determined cast that his face gets sometimes. It never fails to mean bad news for me. "How about a contest?" he offers, spreading his hands in appeasement. "We see who gets the most customers, and then at the end of a couple of weeks, the winner stays and the loser goes home. Or... wherever," he finishes meekly.
I can't fucking believe this. The little bastard is actually challenging me. He's challenging me at something I've been doing for two years and that he just stared yesterday. My hands ball into fists at my sides, and before I know it I've broken one of my fake nails, which does nothing to help my mood. "Okay! Okay, you wanna play hardball? You're on! We're on!" I start gathering up my clutch bag of makeup and squirreling it away inside my less incriminating backpack indignantly. "I always knew you were a little fag, Butters, but now I'm going to beat you at your own game!" A brief flash of hair gel and Marilyn Monroe shirts surfaces in my head; to be honest, however, I think this argument is manlier than the one we had with Craig a decade ago.
He watches me go, fidgeting with a tube of lipstick that's some stupid earth-tone shade he can't honestly expect to get noticed wearing. "May the best man win," he says softly, sounding so ridiculously warm and friendly it takes all of my energy not to channel that stupid monsters movie and growl 'I plan to.'
- margaret -
I strut out into the bar, considerably more crowded than it was, and make sure to get under all the lights I typically try to avoid to garner as much attention as possible through the use of my sequins. I walk right the fuck up to those stoners, lean on their table, put on my pretty voice, and smirk, "Have you boys seen the back room yet?"
That gets their attention. And even though, on the way to the back hall where Kirby makes sure he's not going to get arrested for the stupid shit drunks like to do in public, I'm already flinching at their dreadlocks and 'non-conformist' ideals and the fact that I have no idea how I'm going to keep all three of them occupied when I'm seriously not letting anyone touch my ass, I can probably at least stock up on pot one way or another. Fucking suck on that, Butters.
Bebe Stevens commented on Eric Cartman's Wall.
Red wants to know if youre still coming tonight so she can buy enough food.
Eric Cartman replied:
har dee fucking har, bitch. i wasn't planning on it but now i'm going just to piss you off. ;)
Bebe Stevens replied:
But that doesnt piss me off, cartman. I honestly dont care. Im probably not even going to talk to you. :/
Eric Cartman replied:
keep telling yourself that. also what am i going to again?
Kenny McCormick replied:
It's Rebecca's party in celebration of her art gallery opening. Honestly, Cartman, I live on the other side of the country and I know that. Oh, and, hi, Bebe.
Bebe Stevens replied:
Hi kenny!! :)
Eric Cartman replied:
kenny, what the fuck are you doing here? this doesn't concern you, poor boy. run along now. ta-ta.
Kenny McCormick replied:
And pass up quality entertainment like this? No thank you.
No, but really, I wasn't being an asshole, what party? I don't get why girls think they have to be so organized and on-time and pre-planned all the time. How do they expect us guys to remember an invite we got three months ago? I click over into my calendar menu and stare at the event.
Red's Big Artsy Bash!!
Date: Today
Wendy Testaberger, Stan Marsh, Clyde Donovan,and 17 other friends are attending.
Rebecca Marshall invited you five days ago.
Rebecca Marshall created this event six days ago.
... You don't say?
Well, I guess that means I've got to get a different kind of dressed up tonight. Which I fucking hate doing. I used to have this really awesome tuxedo t-shirt that I wore to everything, but then something happened I'd rather not discuss at this juncture, and now I can't even look at it without thinking of hangovers and Jew butts. So now I have to go find a nice, non-offensive shirt, that isn't covered in Fraulein love, because gray is equally visible on dark and light colors. And then I'll show up and raid the coolers and ignore everything that isn't in a bottle, and everyone will think that, just because I'm a big guy and I know how to drink, that I'm the life of the goddamn party. Sorry, Charlie, but I ain't putting any lampshades on my head tonight...
Wait, shit. Please tell me he isn't going.
Butters Stotch's Wall
going to go try to get the situation with my apartment figured out!! along with working out the stove, should take most of the day. oh well, i sure hope everyone has a good time at Rebecca Marshall's tonight!!
Disregarding the immense list of likes on a stupid status like that, I don't know what situation, what apartment, and what stove problems he's referring to, and I'm not spending a second longer on his poisonously cheerful Facebook any longer to find out. Oh, and I don't care. Have I mentioned I don't care? Because I don't.
Fucking fuckface Butters is making my stomach do this weird boiling thing without being anywhere near me, and if it wasn't quite clear it's really starting to piss me off. I mean, for my insides to be doing these kind of acrobatics, he must have really done something to deserve it even if I'm not remembering what, right? I'm not sure whether him not being there is any better than the alternative, especially because he's probably using his shitty house or whatever as an excuse to get ahead in our little game.
Motherfucking Butters.
I don't really want to settle in to play Skyrim right now. There's this foreboding feeling that I'm going to start something and not be able to finish by the time I have to leave to go to Red's or Bebe's or whichever bitch's it is party.Which is kind of ridiculous, considering it's eleven now and the party starts at eight-thirty, and even taking into consideration that I'm still laying in bed and having a staring contest with the ceiling, if I get my ass up I've still got upwards of eight hours to do whatever the proud, brave, pathetically needy Nords need doing this particular day, but I know Murphy's Law as well as the next guy and besides, it's easy to get reeled in by useless lazy shits who think you're God.
So I guess I'm going to catch up on all the sober sleep I've been missing out on. I set my iPhone aside and roll back over, pulling up my comforter over my head and closing my eyes again. That's all fine and well for all of two minutes before Frau comes over and sits on my head.
I guess I forgot to feed her.
Groaning, I use my fingernails to drag myself up and out of the warm embrace of emotionless fabric, unceremoniously shaking off my cat in the process, which makes me feel a little douchey. But really, if you can teach a cat to take a piss like a person, why can't you teach them to... I don't know, open fridges and cans, and actually, forget it, that wouldn't work at all.
I dump a can of food onto a plate half-heartedly and leave the can next to it so she can lick out the insides herself, because I don't want to remember where the forks are right now. Then I return to my humble, shitwreck abode, which could really use some Febreeze but you can't smell while you're asleep, so what's it matter, anyway?
I settle in and nothing happens. I flip onto my side and nothing happens. The silence is ringing in my ears, and I'm like, shit, why can't I settle down, my weed's at the bar, do I just need to give myself a nice old-fashioned, but my dick still fucking hurts from those goddamn unstoppable hippies and I don't even want to go there. Why did I even get out of bed? Having feelings sucks, I wish I wasn't so attached to my cat. Giving up, I dig around in my nightstand for my best set of headphones that don't leave the house because they're super huge and cost a hundred bucks, and clamp them over my ears, cranking The Sign and sitting up resignedly.
So, okay, most of my playlists consist of girls with big hair and weird outfits singing in outrageous keys, but that shit is cool and fun to sing along to, and anyone who thinks it's not manly probably touches themselves to Twilight. Which isn't even cool if you're a teenage girl anymore, so haha, assholes.
And besides, unless you listen to faggy alternative music, most guy singers aren't even close to hot. Which leaves you the choice of listening to relatively good shit, like My Darkest Days, and wanting to puke every time you see their picture, or listening to bad shit like The Ready Set and wanting to fuck them raw.
I don't know how anyone can say my life isn't hard when this is the shit I have to deal with on a regular basis.
I'm going to eat everything in the fridge due to an unattended case of the munchies and puke it all back up minutes later if I don't find something to occupy myself with. I end up making the decision to go through my music and pare back on the songs I don't listen to, which are mostly dumb emotional 'real music' things that Kenny sends every so often from the city and a couple of Stan's incredibly rough and migraine-inducing demo tracks. See how good a friend I am? It's not my fault that I'm surrounded by ungrateful bastards. Regardless, though, I have some good-ass taste in music, and I mostly end up listening to all of my absolute favorite songs. Music is so much better when you're exhausted, I think, and before I know it I'm drifting off into a blissful state of nothingness.
So if anyone ever asks me why I was late to Red's party, I can just say that I ended up falling asleep with my feet still up on the bed and my shoulders buried in a pile of jizz-covered dresses on the floor, only woke up when my 100-odd song playlist ended, tried to get some lunch/dinner and fell over due to a distinct lack of feeling in my legs, and only realized when I finally got to the kitchen that I was a half-hour late and simultaneously tried to change my shirt and run like hell to get to her stupid fucking art gallery.
Or I can just say I got lost.
"I thought Red was supposed to be classy," I yell down the makeshift table-bar.
Stan squints at me, obviously trying to decode what I'm trying to say over the thumping bass. I'm wearing a black t-shirt emblazoned with the words 'I was offended by Holden Caulfield and all I got was this lousy shirt' and my hat, and Stan's wearing a Raging Pussies shirt that looks like it's supposed to be pajamas and his hat, and between the two of us we look like we crashed the fancy-pants party. The operative word being 'look'. Any illusion of maturity possessed by our compatriots is instantly shattered by the fact that all the promising young adults are grinding on each other to LMFAO, and have been for the entire hour I've been here.
"What?" Stan finally barks over the thumping bass, giving up entirely.
I shake my head and take a long swig of my IPA before wiping my mouth and changing the question entirely. "Why are you even here? I thought you didn't party anymore."
"I don't- fucking shit," Stan growls, dragging his chair along the floor so he doesn't have to strain his voice any more, even if it means he's practically sitting in my lap now. "I don't party, and I didn't want to come to this shitstain gallery, okay? I'm just here because Kyle wanted me to go."
"Kyle's here?" He nods in ascent and gestures into the crowds, where, indeed, firecrotch himself is chatting up our host and a couple other of her cunt friends, smiling and looking so emphatic about everything he's saying inaudibly that I have to remind myself that he's a devoted Marsh-dick fan and not cruising to get any of their number in bed by the end of the night. He looks fucking stupid, wearing a stupid cardigan and stupidly tight pants along with his stupid hat, which makes me feel stupid in turn when I can't help but think about how his stupid gay ass looks nothing short of delicious in those jeans.
I'm not enjoying this fucking party. I haven't seen most of these douchebags offline for months, and everywhere I look is reminder after reminder of the way I spent my school days- angrily lusting over just about everyone I knew and working myself into situations where I could be a fucking creepy pervert. I could never decide whether I was more interested in fucking hating everyone, or just fucking everyone. I mean, jesus, I've seen just about every boy in the room's cock for 'precise measurements', which my subconscious made a lot less innocent than it was, Wendy tried to suck my face off in front of an audience, I had the balls to ask Clyde a rather risqué question just because he didn't know French, I've reenacted Silence of the Lambs in great detail with Bebe, and Kyle, fucking Kyle, I've seen his goddamn sex face and I can't forget it no matter what I try.
I've fucked up my life so efficiently that even talking to Stan is awkward at this point, but it's actually one of the least embarrassing things available to do in this death trap of a room at the moment. "Apparently he's hot shit now that he's got the deal with Nintendo," Stan says to my left, and be still my heart, does he actually sound bitter? I turn back to look at him and he's slumped over his beer, glaring into its amber depths. I just now notice that he looks like hell, his eyes all crusty and dark-circles, his usually flawlessly choppy hair now just a big mussed-up mop. But, yet again, I seem to be all out of fucks to give.
"Yeah, well, I guess programming Zelda gets chicks wet now. I thought that was supposed to be the exact opposite of reality, but what do you know." I put my elbows on the bar, and between the two of us we look like a couple of world-weary hardened drunkards, which I suppose we are, to varying degrees.
We sit there for a few tense minutes before Stan sighs and gets to his feet. "I gotta take a piss." I nod absently and don't look up as he walks off into the throngs. He left his phone right on the table, and I try to resist, I really do, but that's just bona fide asking for it. I click on the most recent email in his inbox, dated from around lunchtime today.
To: Stanley Marsh (smarsh@parkcountycollege.com)
From: Kyle Broflovski (69ingchipmunks@me.com)
Subject: hows school treating you?
Attachment(s): boredasfuck4.jpeg, boredasfuck5.jpeg, seriouslyimeanitimsuperlonely.jpeg, heytherelittlemama.jpeg
Text: heres a better lesson plan for you. might wanna make sure the kids dont get their hands on your phone. hurry home; as you can see i could use some higher education <3 ky
I hate it when Jews think they're funny. Kyle's pathetic attempts at educational humor are just painful, and I'm imagining the pictures can't be anything more than some stupid overused grammatically challenged cats from 2005 that no doubt he found amusing. I click on one out of morbid curiosity.
... There aren't any cats in this picture. There isn't much of anything, really, except a whole lot of Kyle. And nothing else, including clothes.
I calmly close everything out, set Stan's phone back by his beer, and fold my hands in my lap, trying to pretend that that little reminder didn't just make this whole situation a hundred times more uncomfortable, and also that I'm not trying not to pop an awkward boner over his goddamn freckly fucking ginger shitty big-nosed face.
You know what we're not gonna do? Not gonna look over there. Okay, I'm looking over there. Not gonna imagine him making that face, then. No. Goddamn it, Cartman, can't you even listen to yourself?
Something hits me solidly between the shoulderblades and I lash around with a scowl. "'Ay!"
"Dude, relax," mumbles Stan, pushing off of me and wobbling on his feet. "I just lost my balance." His eyes are solidly fixed downwards as he slides back onto his stool, and I realize he's watching his feet.
I scoff lightly. "Oh my god, how many beers have you had and you're drunk already? Wow, Marsh, I thought you weren't 'like that' anymore-"
"No," Stan snarls emphatically, his head whipping up to face me with a very real glare. His eyes are like ice chips, hard and cold, and I actually recoil on my seat and freeze there with an incredulous look on my face until he relaxes and slumps back onto the bar. "I... I don't... I thought I wasn't supposed to get drunk OR depressed anymore, but what do you know. Why do you think I didn't want to come."
I blink, the wheels slowly turning. "Because of ADT?" Stan just nods.
Yeah, okay, I suppose I can probably stop beating around the bush here. The first, last, and only time Kyle ever got drunk, I was there to capture the glory, though I'm not about to tell the story to just everyone. Basically, at Stan's eighteenth birthday, me and beer met for the first time and quickly became secret best friends, so when Stan dragged Kyle with him to a party I just happened to be hanging out at a few months later, it seemed like an awful weird coincidence. We got drunk, went back to Stan's place, got drunker, and made some pretty bad decisions, mostly involving me doing my best and failing to brush off Stan and making out with Kyle for the second time (I have a lot of history, okay? The first time was when we were fourteen and both equally confused, now shut up and listen) which eventually ended up being, in the words of the internet, gratuitous spitroasting. Which was all fine and well, I mean, I might as well be honest and say I have a little bit of a fixation with that redheaded fucker, until he woke up the next morning and realized that I was in his and Stan's sleeping pile too, and was highly unamused to discover that I was the one who'd muscled in on his mouth mid-sexy time. So that is why I haven't been over to Stan's house since, nor has Kyle touched alcohol, and we have not been able to carry a civil (for Kyle) or normal (for Stan) conversation for two years.
So, to be less graphic, ADT stands for Awkward Drunken Threesome, which is the one thing we could all agree on afterwards. Because, at least the morning after, I have been informed it was terrible, for everyone, and that includes me.
Kind of fucking sucks since it was my first time and all, but they don't know that, so.
I draw myself up in indignation. "Oh, that's real nice, Stan. It's not like you're the one getting dirty pictures on your phone or anything, oh no. I'm the whorish one because you and your little boyfriend can't keep your hands off of me, and you don't trust me around a keg when really you're the one with a problem. Good to know!"
Stan looks at me blearily, his expression making it quite clear that he simply does not want to fuck around. "Pictures? I- Cartman, really, I don't give a shit. We're not doing this right now."
"No, we're certainly not," I grumble, getting to my feet. "See you later, I'm going home." And the more I think about it, the more of a reason I have to be pissed off. It's Stan's fucking fault that I'm a hopeless alcoholic at the age of almost-20, making it thereby Stan's fucking fault that I also got into smoking and pot. And, most importantly, it's Stan's goddamn motherfucking fault that the first person to ever touch my dick was an incredibly drunk guy who now hates me even more than before, that I've got a big old hole in my chest that I keep giving blowjobs for money for in the hopes that it'll eventually fill in, that I'm heading nowhere and I'm heading there fast, because it's Stan's fault that I fucked up.
But, you know, I'm an asshole, so what does it matter.
He makes no move to get up as I head for my jacket, but by the time I've remembered where the coatroom is and am on my way to the outside world, his seat is empty. Despite myself, I stop by the door, scanning the crowd for him until- yep, he's next to Kyle, big surprise. He appears to be talking to him quite intently, one hand on his arm, and I've got a feeling that he's asking him if he wants to go yet.
Kyle looks confused, eyebrows rumpling in a frown, and he shakes his head, mouthing 'why?'
Stan looks increasingly frustrated, opens and closes his mouth a few times, then finally just grabs Kyle by the shoulders and kisses him really, really hard. No, really, I just walk right the fuck out as soon as I see tongue from across the room.
Maybe being emotionally involved or whatever makes it different, but I wouldn't do that in public even and especially with a customer. But I guess maybe getting paid is different than just straight-up getting laid. I guess I wouldn't know what it's like if both parties actually give a damn.
Seeing as that pretty much describes my life, you'd think I'd be used to it by now.
six little eggs on the run
they fuck each other
three goes boom dubi um
watch out be safe cos
It's late. It's really late, I should be home now, but I'm not in the mood for passing out in a drunken stupor and having to deal with its consequences tomorrow morning today. So here I am, sitting in the back room, playing trance music way quieter than is intended, wiping my hands of what is really not sunscreen, and stoning myself to sleep.
three little eggs had sex
one win and two explode
goes boom dubi um
watch out stay safe cos
The back room is pretty sweet, considering that people, myself included, only come here to fuck and get high.It's got a nice big couch covered in overstuffed red pillows, and the walls are a nice warm gray. Unfortunately the lights are shitty flickery fluorescent bulbs and people don't have the decency to take out their goddamn trash anymore, not to mention it's absolutely filthy.
two little eggs in the sun
one sleep too long
goes boom boom boom dubi um
the story ends with
The door opens just a crack, and I look up, buzzed enough to not really care who sees the joint in my hand or how bloody I know my eyes are. "Oh, good, you are back here!"
Without further invitation, Butters minces into the room and half-sits, half-leans against a hulking pile of pillows opposite me on the couch. He's wearing glittery eyeshadow and pink tights full of holes up the fronts, and a black jacket over a low-cut t-shirt instead of his usual tanktop thing. And I know it must be a cheap as shit outfit, but the fact that he looks so effortlessly good in it makes me actually feel a touch of anger, even through the haze. But I'm pretty low, so I just stare at him from under my blue-painted eyelids and say groggily, "What?"
one little egg walks blind
makes story stick with pen
boom boom dubi um
another story come.
"Well, I was, I was looking for you," Butters says, bouncing his outsized sneakers against the couch- fuck, is he ripping off my skirt-sneakers thing now? That little shit- and doing his best to smile. "To see how you're doing?"
I have no idea what he's talking about. "I'm fine," I say flatly after a long drag and a longer exhale.
Butters looks mildly alarmed. "What? No, I mean- well, I'm glad you're doing okay, but I mean, are we still having that contest?" He blushes furiously at his own words, which strikes me as more than a little stupid- I mean, it was his idea to do this in the first place.
"I guess," I mumble indifferently, turning my head to look at nothing on the wall.
"So, um." Jesus, talking to Butters is like dragging a dinosaur through molasses. He looks at the floor, then at the ceiling, and finally starts, uncertainly, "Do you wanna maybe say how much money we made the first week?"
"Thousand three hundred." I try to look as nonchalant as possible dropping this bombshell, instead of smirking like I'd like to. Hit the fucking jackpot of desperate fuckers with cash to throw around this week. Of course, I kind of had to prowl around to make up for the day I missed torturing myself at that fucking party, but whatever.
There's a long pause, where I don't turn to look at Butters because I don't want to burst out laughing stupid stoner laughter at him, and then he just says, "Oh." And it sends a bolt of unease straight into the pit of my stomach, because he actually sounds apologetic. I look at him with wide eyes, shaken from indifference for the first time since he entered the room.
"Oh? What's oh?"
"Oh, um... oh," Butters stammers, knocking his knuckles together in a gesture I haven't seen in years. It's a stinging reminder that somewhere under all that makeup and clothing and perfect hair, there's actually a boy, one that I've known for most of my life, and it just serves to piss me off even more that he can so flawlessly pose as a girl. "It's nothing, really, um, just... Better luck next week, I guess?"
"What the fuck are you talking about," I intone as sharply as I can manage.
"It's no big deal, Eric, I just made..." He stares down at his shoes and mutters and I have to slap my hand on the ground to get him to look up again, because snapping at him doesn't seem work the effort. "I made almost seven thousand dollars, okay," he says meekly, immediately following it up with, "But I had to spend most of it on the apartment and on buying a new stove, so I don't actually have any money, so I guess you're winning, maybe?"
I'm just there, staring with my fucked-up eyes, eyebrows pinched into an incredulous frown, because seriously, seven thousand dollars? I haven't made that much in... ever. He's cheating. Little bastard set up another pimp ring, he's gotta be cheating. Or he's lying. That's it, he's fucking lying. I'd at least have thought he'd know better than to lie to me at this point. "Great," I say in a flat voice.
"Yeah, so... week two," Butters chirps in a falsely happy voice, and we sit there in the back room and the silence. He's fidgety as all hell, straightening the pillows, brushing his scene-girl hair into a bunch of different sweeps and contours, and wrinkling his nose every so often, tossing out a comment occasionally.
"I didn't know you rolled your own cigarettes." I don't say anything. "Does it smell funny in here to you?" I don't say anything. "Wait, Eric, is that a really real cigarette?"
Thought he'd never figure that stumper out. "This?" I flourish my joint, sending a graceful arc of smoke through the air and holding it out for his inspection."Why, doesn't it smell like one?" I feign innocence.
Butters leans forward cautiously, takes a careful sniff, and almost instantly bursts out coughing. "No, it almost smells like... what was that thing Mr. Mackey had us smell, that stinky stuff? What is that?" he finally asks, stifling another round of coughs and making his voice sound watery.
"I believe this exact strain is known as Rainy Day Woman," I deadpan before sticking the red-stained paper back between my lips and closing my eyes to him.
There's a stretch of silence before he says, in a very urgent, concerned tone, "Eric, didn't Mr. Mackey always tell us that marijuana is super duper double bad news?"
He actually talks like that. I sigh and shift into a position where I can get a better glare going at this innocent little prick. "Oops." I'm actually surprised at what I see looking back at me. Butters is wide-eyed, his forehead rumpled in a worried pout, his hands balled into little fists of determination. It would be cute if it weren't so annoying. I groan, roll my shoulders, and level my gaze with his. "Look. It's only bad news if you think not giving a fuck about anything is bad news. If you think keeping your cool no matter what pussy-ass fags the world decides to throw at you is bad news, then I guess it sure is. If you think not hurting for a while is bad news, then watch your shit, because pot is not the drug for you!" I finish my infomercial spiel with an overexaggerated wave of my fingers, then slump back against the wall and sneer at him jadedly.
Butters appears to actually have been taken down a notch or two, although unfortunately apparently completely missed the part about weed being the cure for Stotch overdose. He fiddles with the hem of his skirt, knotting it between his thin pianist fingers that look just so breakable, then finally looks up with an apprehensive squint. "You really don't care about anything?"
"Nope." I do my best to blow a smoke ring, fail entirely, and sigh.
"Huh." Butters shuffles on the couch, rearranging himself so he's facing the opposite wall as where I've been pointedly burning holes with my gaze, and I figure maybe he's gonna take a nap at twelve at night or something and go back to fiddling with my iPod. He's doing this irritating coughing thing, these little gentle hiccups that should belong to Tinkerbell, but fuck that shit, I'm not putting this thing out for nothing. But after a couple minutes of Madonna he's getting too loud to ignore much longer, and I dig around in my foggy brain to remember how to get my face into the most unamused snarl I can manage before turning.
It's wasted, though. He's not even looking at me. In fact, he's staring almost pointedly away from me, his hand hanging down the side of the couch, turned slightly towards me. As I watch, his fingers wiggle a bit.
I look from his hand to mine and back again. Then I experimentally reach out and slide the roach between his fingers.
Butters's hand instantly shoots up, meeting with his opposite hand near his face, and he inspects my shitty job of rolling like a squirrel appraising a nut. I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes, but it's a lot easier than normal to keep control of myself.
"Don't let it go out," I say placidly.
His shoulders seize like he's forgotten I'm here, but he still keeps his face turned away. I feel like I'm watching something I shouldn't be, and I'm cool with that. Butters spins my skunkweed cigarette between his fingers and brings it to his mouth and just sucks.
Oh, sweet merciful tits of fuckall. "Careful," I say in subdued alarm, but it's way too late. Butters's eyes go wide and he doubles up on the couch, making his earlier coughing fit look like nothing. Shit, that hurts just to listen to. He's clawing for breath between spasms, little tendrils of smoke skittering out of his nostrils and from between his lips with every move he makes. I feel a vague sense of guilt. When he regains the control to look back at me, his eyes are glassy and tired-looking, but there's that sense of determination again before he snaps into another lung-shredding cough.
"That's-- real strong," he eventually pants.
"You gotta go slow, dude," I say in retrospect.
"T-thanks." With anyone else you'd be drowning in sarcasm, but he actually sounds sincerely grateful (for what, I'm not sure). Butters gets to his feet slowly and bends at the waist, still trying to get his lungs under control, and meanwhile I'm just sitting by the door and watching this whole spectacle and not doing a goddamn thing to help. C'est la vie, I suppose. If I wasn't sitting here, I doubt I would have heard his next words, uncharacteristically low in his voice: "Gosh, this better be worth it."
You know, I'm starting to think that maybe this was a really bad thing to assent to, but like I said: oops.
Butters rears up and sweeps his false hair back into place, his chest moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Cautiously, he leans back against the wall, still staring at me with a disturbing amount of trust, and brings my joint back to his mouth, taking a careful, shallow breath.
"It's still going to suck for a while." I really need to work on my timing.
Christ, I don't know what's got him so convinced here, but he works himself down into a place where he just coughs into his hands so quietly I don't know he's doing it until I see his shoulders shake. For a long time he keeps his head down in concentration, and when he finally raises it again he's wearing my eyes, glazed, huge, and red.
Butters runs his tongue around his lips shakily. "I," he says, and his expression is like nothing I've ever seen on him.
I hold out my hand and flick my fingers for my weed back.
"Oh my god," Butters whispers, and practically slaps the damn thing into my hand, dragging his back down the wall and collapsing on the floor like me so our toes almost touch. His fingers fly to his mouth and cup around a gasp, or maybe a cough, it's hard to tell at this point.
"Uh-huh," I mutter haltingly. Was I that much of a pussy the first time? I honestly can't remember, and seeing as I was alone in my room at the time I don't have anyone to ask. I take a hit and it stops the questions in their tracks.
"Eric," Butters says urgently.
I squint at him. "What do you want?"
He's wide-eyed, taking me in like this is the most important thing he'll ever say, and he speaks with an over-enunciated falter. "I think I need some more." Shrugging, I lean forward and pass it back, the most annoying part of the gesture being the fact that I actually have to sit up.
And that's the way we spend too much time, smoking away my money. Probably if I wasn't in a blissful state of fucklessness, I'd be pissed at Butters for barging in on me and at myself for sharing with the cocksucker, but as it is I guess I can call a temporary truce. It's weird; his hands never stop moving, practically battling each other or clutching into his gold-floss wig, whereas I'm just sprawled in a lump of much-abused young adult, and moving actually kind of sucks. He doesn't have the bad case of pothead's mouth that I've seen far too often from the college kids who come in here, the mile-a-minute groggy senseless blabbering that I seem to be immune to, but when I look over at him half the time his lips are moving on words I can't hear. Suddenly I'm glad I can't read lips, because yet again, I don't fucking want to know.
"I'm soooo hungry," is the only thing he eventually says audibly. "Oh jeez, is it breakfast yet?"
Butters has clearly left the building, and opportunity strikes my mind pretty hard, at least as hard as it can at present. I can ask him anything. I can ask him how he cheated, or why he's doing this to me, or just tell him to leave me the hell alone, and I'd probably get whatever response I wanted to. I haven't messed around with anyone's head in too long. But what I end up saying is simply, "Why are you here?"
He raises his head slowly, looking confused but indifferent, which is a weird look for him. I think I could get used to it, though, if he stays this down. "Here?" he croaks, snuffling. Butters shrugs gently, his shoulders slumping up around his jawline. "I'm here because it's the only place I can go."
Just that is a pretty sizable revelation compared to his previous tight-lipped stance, and I want to pry further, but right about then I realize I'm going against my strict not-giving-a-fuck guidelines. And suddenly, it hits me just how stupid this is, getting some kid I used to know and still hate stoned out of his mind, and I pack my shit and go before he can say anything more. Before I actually start to listen to him.
Kenny McCormick
Mpfffhm fhmmm!
(Apparently people think that I don't actually speak English, only Muffled Parka Language. I will now post nothing but variations on this post so that interpretations of my linguistic skills are not overturned. I apologize for any illusions crushed.)
Oh, right, I almost forgot why I don't go on other people's pages when I have even a trace of my wits about me. Thankfully my phone cuts into my browser right as I'm considering taking revenge for the brain cells I just lost and posting incriminating messages about just where our dear friend Kenny's dick has been on his stupid perfect classy dream girl's page, which, while maybe not necessarily true, are not a huge stretch of the imagination, considering that he's the only one of our once extremely close-knit little group who didn't end up about as straight as the rings of Saturn.
I don't recognize the number, which means it's no one from Facebook, and obviously no one I really care about, which, on second though, pretty much negates the Facebook thing as it applies to more or less everyone. I tap the talk button and raise the phone to my ear cautiously. "Hello?"
The voice on the other end is brisk and shares Pip's stupid French accent, though this one is so proper and effeminate it takes me a second to figure out that it does, in fact, belong to a guy. "Good day, may I speak to Eric Cartman?"
"You already are."
"Mr. Cartman, I'm with the Harbucks recruitment offices for the Denver area. I'm calling in regards to an application you filed with us some while ago."
Oh, dude, it's about fucking time, I sent that thing in in, like, March.I don't say that, however; what I do say sounds a little too overenthusiastic for my voice, but what do you do. "Yeah, thanks. How'd I do? Did I get the job?"
I can tell I staggered the voice on the other end from his pre-set little path, and he struggles to regain his footing. "Well, erm..." Papers shuffle, and I drum my fingers against the back of my phone impatiently, because this is important, this is actually a really big goddamn deal, if this works than I can just blow off bars and whoring and being a sorry sack of shit and this whole stupid contest and Butters-
"Ah, yes. On behalf of the Harbucks corporation, I would like to thank you for your interest in employment. However, after carefully reviewing your paperwork, we have regretfully decided that there is simply not adequate room in the Harbucks family to offer you a position at this time," the voice rattles automatically.
Adequate room? Family? No job? What? "Wh... Why," I say flatly, in an excellent impersonation of Craig Tucker that makes me want to scrub out my mouth with a cheese grater.
The voice sighs, like I'm the one who just shat on his face. "Mr. Cartman, speaking solely as a representative of the Harbucks committee, we would ask if you are aware that the legal working age in Park County and, indeed, all of Colorado, is sixteen, or even fourteen under specific circumstances?"
I wish he would stop talking like he's a Nazi machine gunner and I'm a filthy Jew on the run. "Yes. Why."
"Well. To be frank, Mr. Cartman, it appears that previously you have not even made an attempt to seek out prior employment. Apparently you have a rather disturbing history of offenses ranging from convictions for possession of alcohol all the way up to suspicion of murder and forced cannibalism, you failed to attend your own graduation, you have expressed no interest in pursuing further education, and honestly, it is the opinion of the committee that you would be nothing but a detriment, and that you entirely ignored ample opportunity to... ahem, 'grow a pair and step up to the plate.'"
... Christ on a fucking cracker, even if all of that shit is true, no one ever caught me about the cannibalism thing, let alone even seemed to care, especially not when I got fucking kidnapped and almost forced to do the same. And I couldn't go to my graduation, I had a hangover and puked on my gown. That's none of their business. I need this job. I'm not getting this job. "Well," I start, just like he did. No, Cartman. You still have a chance, keep it cool, keep it cool, keep it cool- "In that case, old chap, you can kindly fuck off and-slash-or just suck my assbarf, then." FUCK.
Mercifully, the phone guy seems relatively untroubled by this outburst, which earns my grudging respect. "I apologize, but you are doing little more than shooting the messenger, sir."
My hand loosens up its death grip on my scalp and I stop soundlessly flipping my shit at myself. Deep breaths. I've got this. "You're right, you're right, I'm sorry," I say, flapping my hands as if to wave away my words despite the fact that he can't see me. "Say, what's your name?"
And this question seems to be the most distressing he's encountered thus far. "My name? I am called Gregory Elroy. I believe we've met in the past, I transferred a number of years ago from-"
"Yardale," I finish automatically as the pieces snap into place abrupt as a cobra strike. No wonder it's that faggot. Regardless, I keep my voice level, conversational. It's been a while, but I've still got it. "So what are you, Greg, just a HR guy? Making calls and delivering bad news all day to ungrateful assholes like me? Working for a man who doesn't even give you what you're worth, am I right?"
There's a long pause. "Please do not call me Greg," he says stiffly, but I know instinctively that I've got his attention.
"See, Greg, guh... gurry," I manage to stammer, "you deserve better than this, don't you? But it seems like you can't get any higher without being in bed with the boss. I mean, maybe you are, but that doesn't matter, let's say he's a douche for the sake of explanation. Anyway."
There's no response on the other end and I surge onwards. "So what you want to do is be up front. You just gotta walk in there and put him on the spot, and maybe on the wrong end of a gun, show him you mean business. And just ask nicely. Say please." I wait a beat, give him time to get this priceless advice written down. "And then you'll be the president of Barfucks or whatever it's called, and you're probably going to want to offer a little reward to the guy who got you there, right? We both win."
I'm rather pleased with myself, but Gregory's silence makes me a little unnerved. "Well, maybe you already tried that," I concede, biting at the nails on my other hand and instantly wishing I didn't when I taste glue. "So why don't you just go up there and deliver him a fuck you from yours truly? You don't even have to tell him it was my idea."
"... Gregory?"
I pull my phone from my ear and discover that I've been talking to no one for almost a minute. "Fucking rude, dude," I growl in frustration and embarrassment, and attempt to set my phone on the floor next to the couch but end up slamming it into the floor and dropping my head into my hands with a bitter snarl without even thinking.
It appears I have not, in fact, stopped being pissed off.
Seriously, though, who the fuck are they to judge me on a job I didn't have four years ago, or some family I killed a decade ago, or a handjob I got paid for last night? I can't believe a spazzy little tard like Tweek can get a job lined up with them and I can't; me, with my considerable business experience even if none of it was legit shit. Their quality control leaves a lot to be desired. Those fucking assholes, what makes Tweek so goddamn special, and holy shit, I'm shaking.
Why am I so angry?
I grab one of the throw pillows my mom thinks make the couch look so artsy, wrap my arms and legs around it, curl up in a little ball, stare at the inside cushions of the couch, and don't move any more.
"So I almost had a job," I start, for no good reason, so abruptly it takes my brain a second to catch up to my mouth. And when it does, it's like, dude, I leave for five seconds and you pull this shit, can't I trust you at all?
Butters suddenly stops making pucker lips at himself in the mirror and turns towards me. "Really?" he says, and he sounds so enthusiastic that I could just cry.
"Jesus, Butters, don't be such a tool about it, at least I tried." I put the final touches on my mascara and look forlornly at the clumps of shit left all over the place by my five-dollar convenience-store generic brand brush.
"What?" He looks at me in the mirror, his arms crossed over his chest and a jaunty slant to his hips, face pulled into a confused stare. "I'm not happy because you didn't get it! Oh, gosh, Eric, you thought that? I'm actually real sorry you didn't, but it's great that you were so close!"
For real, though, why is he so goddamn pleased about fucking everything? I catch myself making a very confused, very ugly face in his general direction and shake it off as soon as I can. "I wasn't that close," I end up muttering, my eyes shifting towards the floor of the bathroom defensively. Why am I letting puny little fairy Butters put me on edge like this?
"Um..." Butters shifts back and forth on his cutesy little heels. "Well, it's like you said, at least you tried, right?" I grunt in a way I would never let a potential customer hear. "If it's not a secret or nothing, did they tell you why they wouldn't let you in?" he asks quietly.
I cap up my mascara and make a big show of putting all my makeup away before finally replying, "I've never had a real job, so they think I'm useless." Just a big old drain on resources like always, I almost blurt, but then I shake my head at myself, because obviously his humble pie bullshit is contagious. I'm better than that and certainly better than Butters, what the hell's wrong with me?
When I next look up, though, his eyes have gained about twelve feet of depth in a heartbeat, and it actually stops me in my tracks, how clear his concern is and how utterly sincere he looks. What you see with him is always exactly what you get, and how anyone could let themselves stay so weak I'll never know, but it's almost admirable. "Hold on a second," Butters says finally, trotting across to where his messenger bag is slumped under the automatic hand dryers and bending over to rummage through it.
And, oh my god, his legs are nice. I mean, jesus, I thought I had some nice curvy legs, but his are just so skinny and... tight-looking, I guess, is the only word for the way they look, like anatomically there's nothing on there that doesn't need to be. His heels make them look even longer, somehow, and his skirt's hiked dangerously high, so high that the next thing I know I'm picturing inches of fishnets a million times hotter than mine all the way up. I swallow hard, which just as quickly wants to reverse on me as soon as I get my head back in the moment and remember that this is Butters I'm staring at, and that's just nasty.
I barely manage to tear my eyes away in time before he's clopping back over in the familiar rhythm of high heels. "Eric," he says curiously. "Why are you staring at the wall?"
"I'm not staring at the-" Oh, wait, yes I am. "I was... reading the graffiti," I correct myself lamely, because tammy luvs big black cocks is obviously the lost gospel.
"Well, when you're done, these are for you." Butters would die of poisoning rather than interrupt the thoughts of the man with the antidote. I find myself dragging out the movements of my eyes just to waste his time, but when I finally do turn around he's still smiling and holding a handful of papers out to me, no sweat.
Ok, whatever, I guess. I swipe the papers out of his hand too hard and start reading.
REFERENCE
Written by Sharon Marsh (Tom's Rhinoplasty, LLC) by request of Leopold Stotch
... Why is he giving me this, again? I don't need to see all the glowing praise that Stan's mom typed up doubtlessly in the stead of some lazy-ass doctor, it's not like I don't know that he's just so fucking flawless, and wait, Tom's Rhinoplasty?
"When did you work at Tom's?" I ask, then immediately follow up with "And what the hell good is this supposed to do me?"
Butters looks confused at having to process two questions at once. Or maybe I'm just trying to make him seem dumber than he is. "It was my job during senior year. I wasn't a doctor or anything," he says humbly, scuffing a shoe on the ground like some goddamn nineteenth-century sweetheart. "I just managed a couple of office chores. Well, you did."
Maybe he is actually that stupid. "No, I didn't," I say clearly, frowning with incredulity 'cause what the fuck is he talking about.
"Yes, you did. All you have to do is take those and change the names to yours, and then submit them with your application. I think," he adds, which is awful comforting. Squinting at the papers again, I can already see how simple it would be just to white over his name and forge Stan's mom's handwriting into my own name. And with such rave reviews, who could deny me? But still, something just smells about the whole thing.
"Aren't you job-hunting too?" I ask suspiciously, narrowing my eyes at him.
He stays still for a beat, then nods slowly as if I'm the one who's acting weird. "I guess I sure am. What's the matter, though?"
"Don't you need these?" Clearly, one of us has missed an important point of this line of discussion, and I doubt it was me.
Butters shrugs, turning for the door. He's too slow for me not to catch the smile on his face and too much of a pussy for me not to see the pain behind it. "Yeah, but I think you could use them more than I can right now. That's just what friends do," he says almost tenderly over his shoulder. "Good luck tonight."
And then I'm alone, holding someone else's invaluable praise. Tom's Rhinoplasty has a major stick up their ass about hiring, everyone knows that. They pay well and offer 'good' work, whatever that is. It's one of the best places in this shithole town to work, and a quick Google search could tell any potential employers just how prestigious (relatively) a high-school job there is.
So why can't I stash them in my clutch? It's right there, sitting on the sink counter, but my fucking arms won't work, like I stuck my finger in an outlet or something. I figure, okay, I'll just go over there and drop them on top and put them in there later, but then my legs won't move and something inside of me is sinking, because this is wrong and I know it.
My stupid traitor body doesn't have any problems putting them right back where they came from and hightailing it out of that bathroom, though.
Eric Cartman messaged Liane Cartman.
hey mom, can you bring home some of those salt and vinegar wings from price chopper?
Liane Cartman messaged you!
Sorry hon but Im nowhere near Colfax today
Too bad you cant drive!!
Eric Cartman messaged Liane Cartman.
they're just at price chopper tho! it's like five minutes off the road!
Liane Cartman messaged you!
Snookums mommy isnt coming home for a while. This is why I signed you up for drivers ed.
Im sorry I cant help you more. Maybe some other time.
Love you
Eric Cartman messaged Liane Cartman.
weak. ;(
At the same time, though, maybe it would be positive for me to actually get up and do something. And maybe in some forgotten universe Panic! At The Disco is any good.
Yeah, fuck it.
But still, you know that really stupid sort of hunger where your stomach will accept no substitutes, it really wants (x) and if it doesn't get (x) you'll walk around feeling vaguely unhappy and unsatisfied for the rest of the day? Because that's the way I feel about salt and vinegar wings right now. Salt and vinegar wings and I are meant to be together forever and ever, and I pine away day after day waiting for a box of salt and vinegar wings to come and whisk me away from this mediocre life of harlotry and sin. In fact, I'm swooning just thinking about it, or maybe that's just because I'm hungry as shit.
So there I am, in the kitchen, doing my best to remember how to fry chicken.
And, okay, I've neglected to mention something over the course of my narrative. I'm not an absolute fucking failure at life, which I should think was kind of obvious, and if you needed to hear that then fuck off, but there is something that I'm actually good at that's, you know, more of a useful skill than deepthroating. I'm a goddamn good cook; I mean, I did start a restaurant when I was ten and saw as much traffic as a McDonald's at a cardboard stand, but after that people stopped really paying attention to anything I made because it probably either had laxatives in it or was just plain tainted. And I'm not going to deny my own past, because both of those things were really, really funny, but I can't help but feel a little bit bitter that one of the most upstanding things I actually enjoy doing is looked upon as being just as bad as my other various vices. I promise those burgers were good for other reasons, too, which is pretty impressive considering I was fucking ten years old at the time, and since then I've been making cupcakes and pizzas and all that good shit whenever Mom was too 'busy' to cook, which has become more and more of a necessity even if I don't really feel like it half the time.
So I guess if people don't want fresh homemade crème caramel and buffalo burgers, that's their choice, but assholes shouldn't be able to bitch at me for overeating my own damn tasty food, that's all I'm saying.
Our house is pimping in the Martha Stewart Home and Garden variety of extravagantly specified cooking tool regard, so I can more or less make anything I want to, whenever I want to. Which I've ended up doing a couple times while high as fuck and watching the Food Network- shit's, like, stomach porn for food lovers (except not in the sense that Stan's creepy-ass father thought it was, Christ.) But it's actually surprising how little special preparation it actually takes to make fried chicken wings, and the most specialized part of it is the assorted bag of chicken parts in our freezer, long-forgotten. So I go a little overboard, and I end up making the salt and vinegar part of it into a sauce and drizzling it all over a couple of wings and adding one of those faggy little parsley garnishes until my lunch is just picture goddamn perfect and my gut is about ready to form a rebellion.
But it's so fucking worth it, seriously. No idea what the supermarkets put on their wings, but it isn't even close to this real salt and vinegar. It seems like the more effort you put into something the less of an output you have, and it's gone way too soon, but I'm about a million times more satisfied than I think I would be if I'd made just an enormous bowl of cereal or something, so I let it go.
Staring at the crumbs on my plate, it occurs to me that it would be pretty goddamn rad if I had someone to share this with. I mean, even Kyle, so I could rub it in his face that I'm better at shit than he thinks I am. It's not a nice feeling, isn't one of those warm fuzzy moments. It's actually a pretty big downer.
If someone would just fucking listen to me and maybe, just consider, just try to find it in their hearts to give me another chance, even a little one, I could kick total ass. If I could just find somewhere, anywhere, to sell something that I, myself, Eric Cartman, made (wow, just imagine!) I'm pretty sure I could work my way into the hearts and stomachs of the general public one way or another. Half the reason I wanted to work at Harbucks was so I could make some pastries that were better than the rocks they pass off as edible, try and start a chain reaction, because everyone's gotta start somewhere and oftentimes that somewhere is under the table, like it or not. But either I really am surrounded by total assholes, or I guess I used up all my chances and this is all my fault.
Wait, fuck, what am I thinking?
No, not what am I thinking. Who am I thinking like, and why is this becoming a recurring problem of mine since he came back.
I groan and faceplant into my plateful of chicken grease.
At least part of the reason why I immediately forget that I was going to try to break off all contact with Butters in an effort to keep my balls intact as soon as I see him is the fact that he's so goddamn consistent. He's as deep in the shit as I am, not to mention I'm pretty sure I've successfully converted him into a grade-A stoner, but he just keeps on with that retarded smile and his almost artificially sunshiny attitude, even when we're both smoking ourselves into an early grave after a long night with shitty customers.
I skulk into the back room with my little baggy full of grass before the door shuts after his last customer, and he's sprawled luxuriously over the couch, his slight frame making it look much bigger than it is, at least when I'm sitting on it. And god damn, has it changed in here; he's cleaned up all the trash, changed the bulbs to warm orange ones, scrubbed the walls of god knows what, probably over the course of several nights, and I only just noticed now. With the slight haze of smoke that always seems to hang in the air here, he conjures up images of a flapper in her own little world of silk and beads, broken by the world but still vulnerable and delicately open.
"How's it going," I grunt, not really wanting to hear an answer, collapsing on the couch next to him and setting to work with my rolling paper.
"I'm okay." Butters smiles wearily, not seeming to care that he's still ruffled from that last john, but you can tell that he's tired. He gets more tired every time I see him at the end of the night, and I guess the pot probably isn't a huge help, but I can relate to the urge to get to a place where things matter to you about as much as they do to the guy in Bohemian Rhapsody.
And yeah, I guess I care that he's this beat, if only because I want a good competition.
"That's it for week three," I mutter, and wow, is it really? Because the last two weeks have been nothing. Just... nothing. The most exciting thing that happened was me killing Paarthurnax to join the Blades, and that was just because it was the first time I actually felt like an enormous prick in a video game, plus now I have no idea where the rest of the Word Walls are and the asshole Graybeards won't talk to me. Other than that, my days have consisted of playing video games, seeing my mom for maybe half an hour total, doing a thousand things with a million faceless desperates, and getting wasted with Butters (or Marjorine, as I'm apparently supposed to call him around others) to cap my days off.
"Oh," Butters says mildly, watching my clumsy rolling. After a pause he starts, "Do you want to talk about profits now, or...?"
"I don't really give a fuck anymore, Butters, okay? You win. Congratulations, you're the crossdressing blowjob queen. Go ahead and chase me off the property with pitchforks," I practically spit, and instantly feel like the biggest fucking idiot the world has ever seen for actually saying it. But oh well, I can't take it back now, so I avoid lifting my head at all costs, but I can tell he's doing that laser stare again, the one he always does because I don't know, he has to think about every last thing he says to me, I guess.
"I don't know what you were going to do if you won, but I never thought you should leave, Eric," he affirms softly, after one of the most uncomfortable silences I've ever known. "You were here first, and all. Besides, I'd be real lonely if you left. I just suggested it because I didn't want to fight over it is all."
And right then something breaks. I look down at my half-finished joint, and I tell myself it isn't worth it, that I don't care, for the umpteenth time, but suddenly I can't fucking keep my mouth shut any longer. "Then why the hell did you go along with it?!" I burst, carelessly snapping around and sending too much of my eightball flying out of its baggie just to give him a piece of my goddamn mind. "Did you think it was funny to rub in how much better you are than me? Did you think it would make your life that much better?! Because I could have told you it wouldn't. It won't fix a thing, because so what if you're so goddamn good at whoring, at least I can cook even if there's no way I'll ever own a restaurant. What the fuck can you do? It won't fix a fucking thing, and you probably can't do a fucking thing either, Butters, because you're just as much of a hot fucking mess as I am."
My teeth click like rocks as I snap my mouth shut, that's how fast it all goes quiet.
His throat bobs as he swallows wetly, his eyes wide and impossibly blue, bluer than even Kenny's, fake fucking blue that I just want to pluck out and pop. Butters licks his mauve lips and gulps again, bats false eyelashes in a rapid blink, and finally says tentatively, "Did you ever consider maybe letting them actually, you know, have their way with you?"
A burst of bitter laughter rips its way out of my chest. I can't believe that's all he got from that. "Is that how you made so much money? That's fucking gay, Butters."
That changes his mood so fast I swear it gets colder. "So what?" Butters counters flatly, and for the first time in the past three weeks he looks like he's fed up with me. "I'm just a little bit braver than you about it, I guess."
I glare at him and finally growl, "Why the fuck did you run away from your perfect fucking life?"
"Because it wasn't perfect. Because my parents thought I needed fixing. Because one day I decided I didn't want to wake up, walk downstairs, and have the first thing I heard be a suggestion to go get tested for AIDS I knew I didn't have because until I came here I couldn't have. But I did it, all of it, and maybe that makes me less of a hot mess than you." Butters returns my stare, and he doesn't look angry, or scared. He looks exactly the same as he always does at times like these and it makes my skin crawl.
But wouldn't you know it, all it takes to break his little façade is me snapping out with both hands and grabbing his head, and bang, he's fucking terrified and I'm fucking pissed. I'm in his face, with my best, most real scowl, close enough to take a bite right out of this little fucker's neck, and he's too scared to even try and pull back because I am a fucking god and I'm done with his bullshit.
"And that was all you were hiding?" I murmur in the darkest tones I think I've ever heard out of my own chest. "That's all you were fucking dancing around for three weeks? Because let me tell you something, Butters, I was smart once, smarter than you'll ever be. I could have done anything without even having to work for it and crushed a thousand lives without a second thought. But I fucked up, I got drunk once and started chasing feelings I didn't know I could have. And everyone graduates, and I'm passed out in my house; and Stan and Kyle go out to party, and I end up losing my virginity to a guy who'd kill me as soon as look at me; and everyone goes to college, and I have to suck dick just to pull my own fucking weight. Because my mom is just as useless as I am, and I have to spend all my money on video games and cigarettes and pot and booze just to feel okay, and what's left of it goes to getting my ass out here because I'm too much of a pussy to drive, getting paid less than I could easily be making by guys who I won't let fuck me because it sounds like torture and I'm terrified. And I can't get a job and I can't fucking fix it no matter what I do because I'm too fucking lazy and too fucking scared and too fucking fucked. I'm every don't-do-drugs propaganda poster boy you've ever seen in your life and I don't even care. You feel pretty good about yourself now, don't you?" I lean in close enough so that my eyelashes touch his forehead and he gasps almost imperceptibly, shaking in my grasp, pupils little more than pinpricks.
"You don't know a goddamn thing about my life, Butters," I growl. "So just shut your fucking mouth."
And, before either of us, I think, can really grasp what's going on, I'm kissing him, and it isn't like any movie that I've ever seen, at least. I've got an iron grip on him, and I'm basically just fucking up his shit with my face, because this isn't any sort of affection, because here in this moment I hate Butters Stotch with everything I am and there's no way to express that with words. I'm practically biting at his lips, he's not even moving a muscle, there's this weird growling coming from my chest, it feels like there's a monster in there, I have to make him understand-
Butters makes the smallest, most broken whimper against me, and then falls silent again.
Just like that, I snap away from him and everything just stops. I'm staring at him, and he's looking back at me, still but vibrating, searching for something he won't find, and his face just crumples and I stop seeing him.
I'm on my feet, hurriedly gathering what's salvageable of my possessions, trying to get my ass out as desperately as if the room is caving in. I canter over the doorframe, forcing myself not to just flat-out run for it, and I'm about to slam it behind myself when Butters half-whispers, in a paper-thin voice, not as if it's an insult, but just as fact: "Eric Cartman, you're a heartless bastard."
And all the way out through the emptying bar and into the night and while I'm walking to the curb and while I'm waiting for a taxi and I'm clawing at my scalp and trying to stop existing all I can say is just a million whispered repetitions of the hallowed two word mantra, "I know."
I don't know whether he tries to avoid me the next day, because I'm doing an excellent job of doing just that to him. All I know is, he hooks a big guy in a slick suit, and sneaks off backstage, and five minutes later he comes out looking slightly disheveled and just as upset as he did the day he showed up. The next day, he doesn't come back. Nor the day after that.
The worst part of it all is, I don't know how to feel about it. I mean, obviously I should be thankful, right? I mean, hell, I could just up and throw a fucking party here, but at the same time would it be worth the effort if the only person who would come isn't dicking around and garnering all my goddamn money anymore, irritating as he was? I guess I didn't realize how antisocial I was really getting.
After a long stretch of wrestling with myself, I decide that it was just really goddamn great to have a mindless little robot following my every move again, and that's all I'm missing. Never mind that it was getting pretty fucking frustrating that he was practically throwing money and aid at me, even in his decidedly tight circumstances, and I could never seem to get my shit together and just bleed him for all he had. It was still nice to have someone to go order more pina coladas while I'm hitting the next plateau of brainlessness.
But Butters was obviously way the hell more fucking trouble than he was worth, right? Just think about it for a second, he must have had some secret scheming way to get in my head and make me feel dependent on him or something, or else I wouldn't be thinking about this so hard. Asshole's smarter than he acts. Was smarter. Acted. I should have just eaten his face off when I had the chance and left it at that. See how well that fit into his little plan, then I wouldn't have had a single goddamn reason to keep turning the last three weeks over in my mind like a worry stone and wondering against my will why and when the hell I went so fucking batshit, even by my standards.
So I'm just polluting my way into a deep, dark mental hole where the Benedict Arnolds of thoughts aren't a thing that can happen, when all of a sudden someone screeches in this really high-pitched voice, "Oh, look, there he is!" This bitch in a tight-fitting sweater flounces over to me, tries and fails not to let out a sharp giggle, and whoa, holy hell, I've never been so glad to see Bebe Stevens in my entire life.
"Do I know you?" I play it cool, crossing my legs in that self-sacrificing way I eventually built up the endurance to do and letting my voice slip into silkier tones.
Bebe looks actually hurt, crossing her arms and pouting petulantly, big glossy lips displaced miles out of where they should be. "Caaaartsy, it's me, Bebe! Remember, you used to invite me over to your house and we'd play, uh, Sheep? And it was really all because of my titties the whole time! Don't you even remember them, at least?" And just like that she squishes her fingers over her chest unabashedly, and god damn, boobs. Maybe I don't do the whole girl thing, but boobies are still a pretty okay thing in my books.
"Bay-bee, you're drunk. Leave Cartman alone, you don't wanna smudge your makeup. Or his." Okay, maybe my dealer fucked with my weed or something and the last three days are just some crazy angel dust hallucination, because there's no way that Wendy comes stumbling up behind Bebe on huge wedge heels, collapsing over her shoulders like girls do and giggling madly.
"Nu-unh, I told you not to say my name like that," Bebe humphs, rumpling her eyebrows and batting her eyelashes in a way that's probably quite alluring to those who are not aware of the cold black hearts that lurk within those of her gender.
"It wasn't your name, though. I was calling you baby, baaaaby," Wendy teases in a slur, flicking her sheaf of long black hair around her shoulders and folding down into the seat behind Bebe. "Caaall me maybe, heh..."
Jesus, the people that buy fake IDs these days. "Uh, so, is there anything I can help you guys with?" I ask, lifting an eyebrow, but I can't tell whether I'm trying to be unimpressed or confused, because I'm too confused. Wait, I guess I'm confused, then. Shit, what?
"Don't be such a goose, Cartsy!" Bebe titters. Her and Wendy exchange a secret girl look, and suddenly I have a really nasty feeling about what this arrangement could possibly mean for me. "We know why you're here," she stage-whispers, doing her best to look sly but really just looking like a drunk chick trying to do just that, which I guess is what she is.
"I see." I prop my elbow on the bar and lean my chin against my hand. "You're saying you've discerned why I'm in a bar full of disgruntled men, dressed up like a teenage girl, wearing makeup and talking in a falsetto? Please, tell me more."
"You're a prostitute!" Wendy blurts, like she just figured it out now (which, I don't know, maybe she did? Maybe Bebe didn't even tell her about this before dragging her along? I just don't know.) She's got her chin on Bebe's shoulder, where the tight red weave is probably going to leave icky marks all over her neck, and together they look like they might have a combined IQ of 50, which is kind of a big deal seeing as Wendy started college two years early or some shit and Bebe's looking to be a doctor, but it's just such an anomaly in my life to be face-to-face with some actual real females of my age group that I can balance it out and pretend that they're worth the while.
"And I don't imagine you're in the market for a blowjob, so why is all of this important to you?" I prompt the two-headed girl monster.
"We came looking for some help!" Bebe stares at me like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"Help? What kind of help?" I consider the evidence and then actually blush for the first time in forever. "Shit, are you guys in lesbians or something? Look, seriously, not all same-sex bullshit is the same. I would have thought you'd at least know that much."
Wendy makes a face at the precise instant that Bebe squeals, "Ew! Yucky! No way!" Then her face goes all shadowy, and the next thing I know she's off her seat, in my lap, and stuffing her tongue into my mouth, prompting Wendy to make a weird whistling noise that might have been a catcall at some point. She tastes like girl drinks, all sugar and Bailey's Irish Crème, but to be honest that's about all I can really gather, because what the fuck is going on?
She finally draws back and grins from underneath her cascade of blonde doll ringlets and I gasp, "Oh."
Everybody's had one of those days when the world can just get on its knees and suck your balls. It's pointless to deny it, because someone's going to ask your friends, and then everyone will know that you had a day where you were an asshole to everything because everything was an asshole to you. I'm not talking about bad days. I'm just talking about days where you contracted a really bad case of apathy because feeling things wasn't worth it.
Know what I'm talking about? Okay, take 365 days like that, sandwich them all together, season them with leap days and holidays to taste, and you'll have my life. Yes, really.
My morning starts with a massive throbbing hangover squatting dead in the middle of my skull. It's fucking ridiculous that I barely even get buzzed anymore, that I remain so very stoic and don't even so much as stutter after an unseemly number of drinks, but I can still wake up feeling as much like scum as I did the first time I freaked and binged. Sure, I've gotta start early and hit it hard to ignore the stuff I do for money, but really, if I have to pay in hangovers I ought to at least be getting a little fun out of the deal.
"Oww, fuck," I inform the empty room, clamping a hand to my forehead as if it'll stop my brain from rattling as I get to my feet. My hair's a wreck, that much I can feel, and I've got eyeshadow sanding away at my eyelids. I snatch a liably filthy plain gray tee off the floor and pull it on, not bothering to find pants because fuck you, it's my house and no one's going to bother me just because I'm big-boned on this property without a harassment suit.
The curtains are closed, due to the existence a very thoughtful and considerate Cartman the night before, but there are no such precautions in the hallway outside of my room. Oh, God, the light burns, I'm going to move into a cave with a colony of salamanders. "Mom, you home?" I rumble drowsily, my voice the audible manifestation of a road that really, really needs a fresh coat of tar and a few boulders to fill out the potholes. It hurts my ears to listen to, and that's not just because of the headache.
There's no response. I can literally hear the birds chirping through the walls. As her absences picked up more and more, from the time I was fifteen, I've resigned myself to the fact that even if she is the best mother ever when she's around, when she's not doing that, Mom's probably out whoring around somewhere.
Well, Ma, like mother, like son, huh? At least I know how to make a quick buck in a pinch.
At the bottom of the stairs there's carpet, and then the carpet segues into the kitchen and a loud meow sounds from somewhere near my feet, which to my bedraggled eardrums sounds a bit like someone breaking a cello in a friendly way. I jump, then groan in mingled pain and exasperation. "Jesus, Frau, what the hell are you doing." Fraulein looks up at me with her colossal green eyes and mews again, and it strikes me that this is, indeed, the cutest goddamn cat ever, and I just can't stay mad at her. She fits nicely into the crook of my arm, almost as if it was made for her, and she likes to put her little paws on my gut and hang on with her claws so she doesn't fall down, which can only be described as adorable.
People are always, whoa, you have a pet that you don't abuse mercilessly? But I'm just, dude, I seriously love cats. They're like my only friends. They don't even complain when you make them taste-test your food to make sure no Jew spit is in it or anything.
I blunder my way into the kitchen and find my favorite hat exactly where it should be, which is good, because I probably would have just kept blindly grabbing around the table until I knocked over Mom's pussy-ass flowers and slashed my hand open on the glass. Fraulein is still clinging into my shirt for all her worth and I dump her (gently) on the counter, leaving her to wonder just what the hell I'm doing not feeding her first as I crack my eggs for breakfast, really hardcore wishing I didn't have to do this today. You'd think at least one of it would get used to this routine.
My eggs-over-don't-give-a-damn-so-long-as-they're-edible are only halfway done before I'm repeatedly growling ‘fuck it' at escalating volumes and pouring every kind of cereal we own into the biggest bowl I can find. The damn things start burning while my back is turned, and I end up turning the gas the wrong way, crusting them to the pan in a matter of seconds, making a noise like I've been rubbed the wrong way with a cheese grater, flinging the whole mess into the sink, and blasting cold water all over them, leaving me with the whole front of my shirt soaking cold and Fraulein with some unexpected protein for breakfast.
She mewls thankfully, though, which makes the whole thing just a little bit better. Damn straight, I am the freaking hangover god, and I deserve respect. This cat should give out lessons on how you treat Eric Motherfucking Cartman. I could pass out fliers to a few ‘certain individuals.'
Fruity Pebbles and Reese's Pieces is an excellent combination. Unfortunately I also managed to get a handful of Mom's Grape Nuts and the whole thing has this groty yeasty aftertaste. What's even up with Grape Nuts? They're not even good. Cereal is supposed to be sweet.
At some point I turned on the radio, and though I'm not sure exactly how that happened it's good white noise, playing quietly in the background as I sit alone at the table and stare out the window with my eyes half-closed. There's this really disgusting sound from the sink, and while I know it's just Frau eating her egg I keep wanting to make sure there isn't a strange middle-aged man jacking off to me eating breakfast. Lady Gaga doesn't quite have the power to keep the prickles from going up my neck, as much of a flawless heroine as she is. By the time my bowl is empty (way too soon) I'm pretty much back in the world of the living, the perpetual paranoia resulting from imagined fetishists skulking around a very effective wakeup call.
Of course, it isn't an antidote to the jackhammer in my brain. Seriously, I'm starting to just want to unscrew my eyeballs like on that stupid alien show and dump bleach directly in there. But that would be mighty ungrateful to all the trouble I went through to get my eyes to see more than three feet in front of my nose without glasses. I settle for taking three Advil, which won't do a goddamn thing, but fuck, who needs a liver these days anyway, they make the day a little easier.
I pull out the half-can of cat food from the fridge and set it in Fraulein's dish, not bothering to dish it out. She can lick out the inside edges all by herself, thank you. It's kind of funny, how this is too much fucking work for me already, how I soon enough find myself jadedly flipping through the triple-x channels on the couch because there's nothing to do and yet I'm not bored. Back when we first graduated, I had so much trouble finding shit to do, even with my burgeoning little ‘problem' with bars. I didn't have a job, I didn't have a car, I didn't have a college. All I had was a kitten and a whole lot of friends who disappeared post-graduation. But now I have all that and a healthy dose of don't give a damn, and it makes a world of difference. Well, rephrase that. I also now have a ‘job'; as in, I do something habitually that earns me a sum of money. But I am in no way affiliated with any sort of labor regulation. In fact, if they caught wind of me, I'd really be up shit creek.
Seriously, though, fuck the police. If my life by day is going to consist of eating, sleeping, and playing various video games for ten-hour stretches (this week's pick: Fable 2) and by night of drinking, wearing a miniskirt, and disappearing into the back rooms with whoever supplies my paycheck, then goddamn it, I should have that right.
Porn is fucking lame these days. I swear the ones Kenny snuck to us were better eight or ten years ago, back before I knew half the stuff that was going on, let alone would have guessed that I'd end up doing it. Now it's just, like, ‘Oh, look, a man wearing a horse costume is giving a woman with a two-foot neon green dong a blowjob, how interesting.' Is this a fetish? I find myself mildly confused and switch over to my Xbox.
When a decade-old video game is more interesting than your voyeurism, you know it's time to find a new job.
It's so easy to lose track of time, when there's absolutely nothing on your plate for the rest of the day. It scares the hell out of me when Fraulein jumps up and snuggles onto my belly, but I end up feeling like Mark Antony the bulldog (or, rather, Cthulhu; maybe this is karma for all the times I totally invaded the dark lord's personal space). There's this little two-year-old tabby dust ball purring away on me, totally loving and trusting, begging for attention that Kyle and Stan and those assholes wouldn't wish on their enemies, and here I am with my eyes glazed over and my mouth hanging open, teeth unbrushed, not having showered for two days, bashing things to pieces with a virtual hammer in my boxers. No regrets, bitch.
I'm starting to realize that there's not much left to unlock in Albion that I even want. I'd like to blame that fact on my playing it in seventh grade, but to be honest I've been averaging six hours a day for three weeks, and besides, I deleted my old character. I'm basically chasing myself in huge circles and wiping out wave after wave of respawned enemies and oh, whoops, look, it's lunchtime.
I feel a twinge of guilt when I have to wake her up and push Frau off of me, but she recovers quickly and trots behind my heels. The city of Fridgeville is populated by a nearly empty bottle of orange juice, dated egg salad, Mom's nut bars, and a plate that used to belong to Powdered Donut Surprise but I ended up just leaving in there for her because I suck at doing dishes. The cabinets aren't any better, just a few crumbs in the bottom of a tortilla chip bag, which is, like, disgusting anyway, stupid hippie rabbit food. I stand up with a sharp groan. "Mom! Why haven't you gone shopping!"
I listen intently for the response. Frau looks at me like I'm crazy. Oh.
Goddamn it. I just wanted to stay home and play video games, is that so much to ask? Now I have to put on actual pants and walk all the way to the market on an empty stomach. I fucking hate everything; this is the worst day ever.
I find the shittiest-looking pair of jeans I own just to spite the world and grudgingly shrug on my good old jacket, not bothering to do the little latchy button things. I skip the gloves, which actually feels weirder than wearing them for no real reason. I know I don't have to wear my winter clothes whenever I leave the house, I know that Mom's not going to dress up her little pookums anymore, but if a one-year habit is hard to break, then one that's old enough to get laid is way, way harder. Pun completely and totally intended.
Slush instantly sinks through my super-sweet sneakers, the product of the clear sky and blinding sun that I literally cringe at the sight of. It's getting warmer out. Summer week is going to show up pretty soon, I think. Which means my birthday is soon. Sweet.
I'm gonna be twenty, though. Not quite so sweet.
Not too many folks out right now. They're smart, because the slush is everywhere and it's cold as a witch's tit and everything is disgusting. I jam my hands in my pockets to keep them from flipping the bird to all the haughty assholes in their high-class cars passing me. My mouth takes over the resentment in my hands' stead, as per usual. "Douchebags, think they're so great just ‘cause they're driving. See how smart they feel when they crash. They'll be sorry then."
A man pauses and gives me the strangest look, like he's never even seen me before or something. "What the hell's your problem?"
"Shut up, Mr. Garrison, you don't even matter." I snarl at him and keep walking.
You know, the bastard's probably the reason why our class turned out all faggy, we warned our parents and everything and even now he still gets to prance around and bug us even though he's fucking retired. Just to clarify: retired, as in, no longer even remotely involved in his graduated class's lives. The nerve of some people.
The warm air of South Park Central Market is the first nice non-feline thing to happen to me all day. It's way more crowded than the streets outside, proving that some people do have the sense to come in from the cold after all. I just want to grab food for now and for dinner and go home and sleep. People piss me off so much.
I almost want to use one of the wheely carts to exert as little effort as possible, but I don't plan on filling the whole thing, and besides, with the knots of congestion in the aisles it looks like more trouble than it's worth. Basket in tow, I skip the produce section entirely, heading straight for the meat and trying to avoid any uncomfortable eye contact with people I don't want to talk to in the Town Where No One Ever Fucking Leaves.
You ever just think about how many packages of meat boast about how little fat they have nowadays? It's annoying, lean meat is total shit. You're better off eating the package for all the flavor it offers. I grab the fattiest ground beef I can find, which still looks about as appetizing as ground spleen, and steer towards the noodles. Some little girl is in the middle of the alley, picking up a bunch of cans she apparently threw all over the place, and I have to resist the urge to play kickoff with her head.
Whole-wheat lasagna noodles. Identify the problem with that phrase. These hippies and their cardboard food, they might as well just go to a restaurant and eat the goddamn menus. Between the crowd and the unwelcome intrusions on my diet, it takes me an unreasonable amount of time to find all the things I need to cook hamburgers and lasagna, and I am just about ready to grab one of the generic store brand marshmallow holders and make myself an eyeball shish kebab if I have to be here one second longer.
So of course the world decides to make the only open cash register the one manned by Pip, who has obviously made it so far in the world. Of course.
"Well, there's a familiar face!" Pip says cheerily in that soul-burning accent of his, waving a hand from behind the counter.
"Well, there's a French failure," I growl under my breath, though I sort of hope he hears me and gets the damn hint. He remains oblivious, smile firmly in place between his frayed gray cap and red supermarket apron. I just load my whopping treasure trove of items onto the conveyor belt and put on my best disinterested glower while he tallies them up, until something on his hand catches my eye. "Uh, Pip, why the hell are you wearing a ring? You do realize that even you're not faggy enough to pull that off, right?"
"Hm?" Pip's eyebrows knit and he glances down at the hand in question. "Oh, yes, this! Well, I am a married man, after all."
I'm sorry, I believe the limey piece of crap just said that his life had a trace of meaning. "What."
"You didn't know? I sent you an invitation to the wedding. In the mail, and on Facebook." Pip's smile is now that familiar sort of sad, sort of angry look that people do when they're trying not to call me an insensitive douchebag in public. Not that they're worried about me getting my panties in a twist, it's just that some people can't seem to handle words above ‘heck' in offensiveness.
"Sorry, Pip, I guess I just... don't... really... care... about your life." I pronounce every word carefully, staring him dead in the face because it has been a decade and I am still totally seriously about that fact.
This is the part where, if there were dodgeballs behind the counter, I'd have a broken nose and Pip would still be grinning like a psychopath. "Yes, well then, maybe you'd just like to pay for your groceries so that Millie and I can raise our own productive members of society," he says, sounding like sweet tea with poison. That was actually a pretty sick burn, for him. Our little frog is growing up, apparently...
Wait, Millie? The hick? What does she have to do with... Oh, yeah. He's straight. I forgot. It kind of makes sense, that the two poor-as-dirt heavily accented social outcasts would hook up and, without a care to their incomes, start increasing the overpopulation by the age of twenty, selfish bastards.
"Cartman," says Pip clearly, like I'm some sort of idiot. I realize that I've been staring at the readout for about twenty seconds, like 18.43$ is the meaning of life. Which is, like, twenty seconds, you'd expect me to say something like 5 minutes or something but when you think about it even a minute of stunned silence is a fucked-up-edly long time to just stand there like an idiot.
I shake my head a little. "You need money to pay for things?"
Pip isn't smiling anymore. Fuck. This isn't the first time I've wound up in a supermarket buying things without any means of payment, though this is admittedly the first time I've managed to pull that one off whilst entirely sober. The consequences are far more of a waste of time than I'm willing to deal with. There's a kingdom that needs saving back at the house, anyway. I dig around in the pockets of my jacket, abruptly thankful I wore it. I come up with a crumpled ten and an additional five bucks of change and singles. "Uh." I raise my head, uncomfortable in the rare moment of disadvantage. "I have fifteen dollars."
My cashier fixes me with a hard-eyed stare for agonizing seconds, then sighs and slumps over a bit. "I'll cover the rest, but only because you're still my friend. And there's no one else on line."
"Oh, cool, thanks, Pip." Okay, to be honest, I'm pretty sure that just about everyone can tell when I'm being fake-grateful. It's one of my worse facades. Can't believe he had the gall to call us friends when we've never been anything of the sort, though. If the lies got any more obvious in this checkout line someone would probably have call the zoo to get rid of the elephant in the room. Smile pretty, Cartman. Give the man your money, Cartman. Choke down the vomit, Cartman.
I'm away from one annoyance for all of three seconds before I'm confronted with the next. I honestly have to carry this freezing fucking bag of hamburger home with my bare hands. Now I'm wishing I had my gloves, but I guess you can't win them all. My stomach tosses up a protesting growl on the way out of the market and back into the blinding sun. Yeah, bud, I don't want to be doing this either. In fact, I don't even want to be alive today. I wish I was a badger. I could just crawl into my little hole in the ground and, like, hibernate for a day, that would be so cool. Even if I did have to skip lunch. Instead, I have to settle for an overwhelming and all-too-familiar loathing for absolutely fucking everything on the face of the fucking planet and even those fucking Marklars or whatever.
Goddamn, do I need a fucking smoke.
You know something may not have gone ideally in your life when you start wondering what it's like to walk in on you in the bathroom, especially if you're a six-foot-tall dude who can do his own makeup better than most girls his age, wearing a zebra-print miniskirt and tights during the moment in question.
But then you realize that fuck you, I've got enough money to purchase such quality titles as Lollipop Chainsaw every week and I don't even have to do anything except suck the occasional dick. Also, yes, Webster's has officially declared the meaning of ‘occasional' to now be ‘several, on a nightly basis.'
I always get here early. People must think I'm quite the barfly, but it's just a hell of a lot more... I don't know, as dignified as cross-dressing can be, to not have anyone poking around before I put my big girl panties on. Honestly, how uncomfortable would you be to have the mental image of the run-of-the-mill 20-year-old unemployed guy pre-makeup while you're necking with what you'd otherwise think was just an especially shorthaired slut?
I put the final touches on my turquoise eyeshadow and double check that my leopard print strapless isn't all hung up on anything like it likes to get. I have quite the respectable wardrobe by this point, but it's sort of like how you can't pretend you're Slash if you don't have a top hat. There's an outfit for the profession, and it is assorted animal prints and stringy stockings. You could wear something else, and you do, but it's just not as iconic.
Kirby's looks a lot better at night. You can draw the curtains as much as you want, but there's still daylight leaking in around the edges, making it painfully obvious that this is just another poor-as-dirt Colorado bar in the middle of nowhere. Once the sun goes down, you can pretend, with the local DJ up on the stage and the dusky lights, that, even though you can't see more than two feet in front of your face, this is a hip place to be, on the cutting edge of counterculture.
With real, female tricks and everything. Wow. What a concept.
But the reality is, this place is a metaphorical dead end at the literal dead end of a half-hour bus ride, so I just sashay my way over to my spot at the far end of the bar, pop my earbuds into my ears, crank the gospel of Our Lady of Gaga, and light up. The urge to reject more or less anything that comes into contact with my throat is so far gone I could probably be a fire eater. Kirby's taking the day off, which is just so goddamn surprising. The bastard's lazier than me. At least it means I won't have to face any veiled blackmail threats about a cut of my profits in exchange for not blowing my operation out of the water tonight. Pretty sure he knows I ain't old enough to drink, despite the fact that I've earned my gills several times over, too. But it means that skinny little elegant bartender in training is here, which is cool with me. He's the kind of dude I'd give a discount. Maybe even I wouldn't make him pay; maybe I'd pay him instead- I've always liked the male model type.
Did I forget to mention I'm pretty much into guys? Oh, right, the biggest fucking shocker you've ever heard. The crossdressing cocksucker sucks cock. Sorry. I just ruined the story. I'll try to insert a narrative spoiler alert next time I have to drop a bombshell like that one.
I've already got a drink in my hand by the time the first cluster of guys trickles into the bar, already got a couple empty glasses in front of me when the evening really picks up. It's remarkable how easy it is to get a fake ID within a few hours in Denver's seedy underbelly. It's also remarkable how much traffic this little slice of nowhere gets. In no time the air's thick with smoke, which is annoying because it makes me want to smoke the remainder of this pack, which is bad because I kind of spent all my money-for-cool-shit on a huge signed poster of the goddess that is Gaga and actually I'm pretty much broke for a while taking meals into consideration, which pisses me off because cigarettes aren't necessary but they certainly help me not bash together the heads of the next two guys who pad my pockets. It's really a simple lesson in cause and effect when you think about it: no nicotine equals angry drag queen.
But the universe throws a bone around then and I find myself in the middle of chatting up, or, rather, being chatted up by, a guy who really needs to retouch his silver roots. He looks eerily familiar, as well as way too old for me under normal circumstances, and the only thing keeping me blank-faced and ass firmly glued to my seat is the suit he's wearing and the watch around his wrist.
"... and so I told the bitch, maybe if you didn't want me to hire them, you shouldn't have backed the car into the pool!" Grandpa brays loudly, and for so long that he almost chokes on his next sip of cosmopolitan and gets it all over his silk tie. Lovely.
I try to smile, but I'm pretty sure it comes out more like a sneer. "Oh, haha. So let me get this straight, you're living in a hotel because... your wife crashed your car into a pool and then you called a wrecking crew in hopes of somehow getting it out and they took down your house?" He nods and I realize I'm forgetting to sound interested, rather than just totally baffled at how a man could be this stupid. "That's pretty crazy, babe."
"Yeah, well, she's pissed. Got her panties in a knot, ya know how it is, don't you? Who needs the horsey skank, anyway. I'd much rather take you back to my room later..." I swear this bastard just batted his eyelashes at me. "So what can I call ya, sugar? Angel, Winona, Brandy? Just don't tell me your name's Rebeccah," he finishes with a grin, in the deluded self-amusement of the drunk. Not to mention he looks entirely sincere, and does not appear to give an actual fuck that he's trying to commit adultery with a trick half his age.
I realize two things so close to each other that it makes my head spin. The first is that this guy actually thinks I'm a bona fide chick, which means he's either blind, inexperienced, really drunk, or some combination of the three. The second is that the current mayor of Denver has a wife by the name of Rebeccah. I recoil in my seat, the true repulsiveness of this man finally shining through. "Oh, Christ." I've dropped that stupid faggy fake accent that I've been told makes me sound normal, not to mention sent my voice down into its normal octave, but there is no fucking way I'm doing jack with this guy, no matter how much he pays me, so if he doesn't like my voice he can... uh, not suck my balls. "Even I have standards, dude."
I can just watch his face fall, and he stalks off muttering something about how all women have their heads so far up their own asses that they can see China, which I don't even want to think about. I'm alone for not more than five minutes before a cluster of stoner college kids hover around, let me bum a free light, and immediately start asking me if I'd mind posing for their newspaper. On video. With all three of them. Clothing optional. And no camera.
Holy Christ, either I'm in a bad mood or the usual clientele is less shitty. I need to go powder my goddamn nose.
I calmly excuse myself and flounce off to the little boys' room, checking to make sure no potential clients are in here before retrieving my swag bag (fact: makeup touchups are the swaggiest thing known to man) and digging through it for maybe an extra pack, hopefully, maybe. I don't want to break into my weed stash just yet, seeing as it's still only... nine fucking thirty? Jesus Christ, and I've got a long night ahead of me. If things keep up like this I'll be needing it, and I can't say I'm sure where and how my next fix will be coming from. Oh, bother, drat, darn it all anyway.
At least I've got a few left. I wander out into the cool night air, where you can hear, when the wildlife is quiet enough, the traffic noise from nearby Denver, a sort of calming mechanical murmur. It's so different behind Kirby's; you can actually tell this is the middle of nowhere, just a couple of dumpsters against the wall and then boom, nothing but empty fields till they hit blacktop. Funny, how you only have to take a bus a few miles down the line and your snowy mountain town seems worlds away.
I lean back against the wall, flick my lighter, tilt back my head, close my eyes, and inhale.
I wonder what the guys are doing right now. Probably Stan and Kyle are having a good old fashioned round of nice super fun time, knowing those goddamn ridiculously committed happy romance-movie bastards, and Kenny's probably playing yet another full house. And here I am, in a skirt, burning through my last pack of cigs behind a bar full of skeezy old men I'll probably end up forcing a smile for through a mouthful of dick.
But I can't hear the angry buzz in my head anymore, though, so fuck that noise, I'm cool.
The bar door swings open and shut, agitated footsteps clattering on the ground before stopping abruptly. I can hear breathing, the sort of breathing that says, ‘calm the hell down, you're okay, sonny boy/sugar tits.' Funny, no one ever comes out here except me. Maybe it's just that bartender, taking out some trash. It can't be all that important.
Despite myself, I look up. My new guest reveals turns out to be a chick, a skinny-as-shit chick, with the baby blue eyes and spun gold hair of a Swede and an outfit that rivals my own for skimpiness. She's wearing one of those transparent girl shirts over a teal tanktop, both looped so low over her pale shoulders that it's a marvel they're hanging on, and she's got her arms clamped over her (rather unimpressive) chest, looking like she's hanging on to what little scraps of composure she has left for dear life. It's the weirdest thing, I swear I've seen this girl before, but I don't really give a fuck about girls in MY bar as anything but competition for my sweet, sweet money.
I don't know what's got her in such a tizzy, and I can't say that I care. I look down at my red press-on nails, protecting my sadly dwindling nicotine supply from a sudden gust of wind, and pointedly turn back to my own business.
Out of my peripherals, the girl slowly collects herself, releases her arms from around her shoulders, and turns towards me. And fuck, I do know her, or at least she knows me, because her eyes go visibly huge even in the edges of my field of vision before she goes back to that forced calm and says, in a soft, gentle, humbled, lightly Southern-tinged, and distinctly not female voice, "Oh. Um, hey, Eric."
Oh, fuck my ass.
I stare unabatedly. I really, really, do, and I let the ash fall all over my shirt, and I let my eyebrows cramp up from scowling confusedly, because this is a certified Big Thing, and it ain't the good kind, either. Butters motherfucking Stotch just rose from the great beyond, and is now presenting himself in an incredibly realistic wig and a rather dashing miniskirt/tanktop ensemble, and fuck, I really don't need this, not now. And the rivalry with God marches on. "... Hey."
And god damn if I'm not the biggest idiot ever, god damn if he doesn't look back down at the dirty moonlit ground and let me think it's over, god damn if I don't think that I can escape this situation and never have to deal with him again, when I've just hit that plane of false security he says delicately, "Umh... Why are you wearing that?"
Talk about your double standards. I twist my painted lips into a snarl and hunch my shoulders. "I dunno, fuck off. Why are you wearing what you're wearing?"
Butters looks down at his see-through little shirt and picks at the fabric idly. "I just..." He's obviously trying not to seem like he's dodging the question, even though he doesn't want to answer. One of the reasons I don't need him around: he's just way too honest. "I needed to get out of the house for a while, without being found."
And here we have all the necessary ingredients for a John Hughes movie, wrought with teenaged drama and angst. Except I'm not asking what his problem is. I don't want to know. No, I really don't want to know. I take a drag, try to leave it there, but there's this prickly feeling eating up the back of my neck, because I know he'll never restate a question even if he still wants to know and that I can't hide jackshit from him. I have apparently lost that once-honed ability entirely. "... Fishnets."
Butters laughs, like I've just spat out the snappy one-liner that made something he said funny. And he starts to look like I remember, all sunshine candy cane gumdrop kingdom, making me want to get the fudge out of here even more. "Haha, yeah..." Butters' face rearranges itself back into a familiar confused expression. "... Wait, what?"
"I like fishnets." I chuck my cigarette butt on the ground and grind it into ashy nonexistence with the toe of my super-sweet yellow sneakers, walking off nonchalantly with my hands in my pockets before realizing I don't actually have pockets and failing to look nonchalant or even walk off in the slightest. I feel like one of those programmable LEGO robots that stop in place and whir their wheels aimlessly if you give them conflicting signals. I'm not on my game at all. I'm at the bottom of the barrel. I hate this feeling. I hate Butters.
I passionately and with all my heart hate Butters, who, noticing my pause of extreme frustration, pushes off the wall a bit and waves a hand. "You're leaving already? Well, okay, then, see you later, Eric!"
"I'd really rather not," I mutter, and I don't care if he hears me. I'm on my way to get good and drunk, stoned, and throat-fucked for a discount, and not necessarily in that order. Anything to kill brain cells, maybe even wipe out that most recent exchange entirely.
The nerve of some people, showing up again after almost two years and fucking up my fucked-up life.
Eric Cartman commented on Kyle Broflovski's Wall.
i neeeeed som mor w333333d ;((((((
Kyle Broflovski replied:
youve got your es/3s in all the wrong places there dude. and why are you telling me this? its almost like you want to get arrested. hm
Eric Cartman replied:
fuck you, kyle. i don't even remember posting that. delete that shit if it pisses you off so bad.
Eric Cartman replied:
also, got any advil that i can come borrow?
Stan Marsh replied:
Cartman.
Stan Marsh replied:
Youre drunk.
Stan Marsh replied:
Get out.
Eric Cartman replied:
says the guy who apparently, though interning to become a teacher and holding down college classwork, has all the time in the world to read and respond to literally everything posted on his boyfriend's wall, but what do i know. ;P
Eric Cartman replied:
also, *you WERE drunk. past tense. do they let you teach english?
Kyle Broflovski replied:
oh my god just stop i knew id regret accepting you.
I may be still mildly inebriated, but I am nowhere near drunk enough to deal with last night's tomfoolery. I think the taxi guy may have either beaten me up or traded his ride for a gross Mexican jerk-off, for the second day in a row I look like hell warmed over, and I am officially out of pot. And Butters is back. Back from where, I don't know, but the whole convoluted thing is just adding up to a big W.W.F. level smackdown between me and reality.
I set my iPhone down with a self-indulgent groan, heave myself out of bed, scrub at what feels like a burgeoning eye infection one-handedly. My jaw hurts pretty damn bad, because you can't tell a paying customer to show some freakin' manners, but that actually seems like the least of my concerns, making the days way back when I thought I had jaw tendonitis seem like treasured childhood memories that one looks back on with a single tear and a loving smile.
Not that I'm wallowing or anything.
But, hey, I made 250 bucks. You'd be surprised at the ‘high-class' skeezes who flock in from Denver when they get the brilliant idea to look for sluts outside the cop-protected city area. Of course, cops are just human too; the upper-class socialites could actually learn a thing or two from me about deterring and distracting the authorities, but then they'd have to shell out for that too.
No, but really; 250 bucks for a blowjob from a crossdressing, wasted, slightly overweight dude who flips his absolute shit anytime anything gets within three inches of his rectum. Just stop and think how desperate these poor men must be.
There's a note on the table, practically embroidered with my mom's ridiculously frilly cursive. It takes my addled brain a few moments to decipher, and even then I stumble over myself reading out loud to the one true love of my life, Fraulein.
"'Sweetheart, I cooked you a nice fresh batch of Chicken Chocolate Pie Supreme-‘ Oh, really? Sweet- ‘It's in the fridge. That's the good news.' The good news? What the hell is she... ‘You remember you have to be at school today at 3, right?' Huh? No I don't. ‘Mommy had to pay a lot of money to get you into driver's ed because you're already graduated.' Oh my god, she didn't do that for real, did she, Frau? This can't be reality- ‘So please don't waste it and try to have fun! Mommy misses you and she loves you very much, snookums.'" I set the note down and take a moment to indulge in a very long, very strung-out sigh.
Fraulein responds to this by meowing and pretending my socks are a scratching post.
"How does she manage to be that embarrassing over writing," I mutter, waiting for my cat to be done before scrounging around in my fridge for that pie. Pie for breakfast is a better choice than it sounds like, as chocolate contains natural endorphins, which are exactly what I need to prevent from deliberately seeking out Ike Broflovski and snapping his fucking neck. Killing children is never the answer, Cartman, remember?
Is it bad that that's literally the only thing I can think of having anything to do with that little bastard? I don't need any Broflovskis in my life, either. Or Testaburgers, or Brodericks, for that matter. As great as a job as I've done eliminating actual, you know, feelings and stuff, I really don't need to be popping hate-boners over anything and/or anyone at this point, it just makes things too damn complicated.
And fuck you, young Matthew Broderick was hot as hell.
I really need to take a chill pill with the whole Fable thing. I rediscover my old(ish) copy of Skyrim, which was actually sold to me for cheap by Stan. For everything I say about him, Stan's the closest thing I have to an actual friend these days, even if he was just selling it to me to curb Kyle's addiction so he could get some butt, because Kyle is one of those sad lonely nerds for whom video game addictions take priority over real live free lovey-dovey soulmate sex, apparently.
I mean, sure, he's the one that's getting fucked, but still. He's apparently into that, so.
My good old Orc, Yzz-ahr-Grel, is waiting just within the silver confines of her disc. And okay, originally I was just playing as the ugliest bitch I could figure out how to make to try to be ironic, but then I had to go and give her an actual believable name and get attached to her and now I just don't have the heart to erase her, despite her housewife hair and squished-up black guy nose. Yzz is awesome and cool, and she will never not be my character.
Oh, man, I was saving the Daedric quests for a rainy day, wasn't I? I speed run them, because maybe if I collect all the artifacts Mom will get off my ass about getting behind the wheel of a car that isn't on a ridiculously safe oval track, instead interred in poorly maintained roads and surrounded by idiots. But I only have until three, so maybe I'll just get as many as possible and the universe will strike down Mr. Adler with driver's-ed-opposed lightning in reward of my efforts, a boon of the hopefully totally nonfictional Daedra themselves. Just gotta get to Vaermina- Malog Bal- Mehrunes Dagon- Peryite- Sanguine-
Goddamn it, it's two thirty, and I don't even have the Rose yet.
I wiggle my way into my jacket and mittens like a butterfly in reverse, kiss Frau goodbye, and dart out the door, all in pursuit of not hurting Mom's feelings. I mean, she can do some pretty dumb shit sometimes, but she's still my mom, my aging cokehead mom, and sometimes I'm nice enough to throw her this much of a bone.
Of course, when I discover that my class consists of myself, Mr. Adler on teaching duty, and none other than Tweek Tweak himself, I'm wondering if this bone belongs to a brachiosaur, because it's looking bigger by the moment.
I'm literally as far away as I can be from Tweek without pissing Teacher dearest off, sprawled out on the vaguely squishy new grass and pretending I don't see my single classmate on the verge of a seizure on the other side of this grassy knoll. We're sitting on one of those concrete dividers that get planted with trees in the parking lot of the high school, and Mr. Adler is looking at us like he's expecting some screwing around the likes of which has never been witnessed by mankind.
"Welcome to driving education," he finally says, in that voice that sounds like his mouth is permanently half-full of mashed potatoes.
"Errk!" yelps Tweek, hands knitted into his shirt. So what if he's managing his own coffee store by now, so what if he mostly can pass as a pretty cool guy behind the counter. The second you take him out of his comfort zone, he flips his shit all the way back to third grade.
Wisely ignoring him, Adler marches on. "I've gotten dozens of other kids through this same class, and I'm here to teach you how to not break your necks, but first of all I'm going to need something from you." He adds a laser stare at each of us for emphasis, as if this next part is going to be super-deep and unexpected.
"Oh Jesus, no!" Tweek blubbers.
"Don't screw around," I mutter.
"Promise me you won't screw around," finishes Adler predictably, folding his bulky arms over his downright floppy chest. Tweek looks noticeably relieved. I just roll my eyes.
"So, uh, yeah, do you have the paperwork for me? Just let me fill that out so I can get my permit and get out of here," I say impatiently.
Adler, he who no longer deserves an honorary in front of his name, just stares, scratching his silver combover dully. "Er... Eric, there appears to have been a misunderstanding. This is a hands-on class. I'm teaching you from behind the wheel."
And that strikes fear into my heart like nothing else. Nothing else, that is, sparing the news that we'll each be observing the other's driving from the back seat when not on steering wheel duty. Which means I'm going to be in a car driven by Tweek.
It takes all of my practiced prostitute begging skills to coerce Adler into letting me go first.
The car is a rusty old beater, probably from before the eighties were even in their embryonic state, with state-official STUDENT DRIVER strips looking oddly out of place. Cautiously I step into the driver's side, the car rocking in a way that makes me seriously doubt its structural stability. It repeats this move for Adler, though strangely not for Tweek, but I have neither the time nor the patience to mull that over.
"Eric, have you driven before?" Adler asks, clipboard at the ready.
Yes, at a fucking NASCAR race, you sorry sack of shit. Of course, I maimed all the other contestants, but that's no big deal and wasn't even really my fault for the most part. "Once or twice."
"Okay, well then, show me what you can do." I'm starting to seriously doubt that he's even qualified to be teaching us this, what with his noncommittal responses and all-around cluelessness in every aspect of life, but whatever. I spend an inordinate amount of time messing with the mirrors and the seat positioning, anything to maybe eat up all of my time, until Tweek's involuntary barks of nervousness grow too loud to ignore any longer and I find the keys in the ignition just to put an end to his reverie.
Adler's spewing advice any third grader could tell you at this point, and I'm just slowly easing the little car out and around the empty parking lot (is it Saturday? I guess it's Saturday), trying not to floor the gas or let up too much, averaging a whopping five miles per hour. I almost hit a squirrel at one point, but he runs just in time, which is kind of a downer- I mean, how many people can say they ran something over their very first driving lesson?
I do pretty good up until the part where I have to go in the road a little bit, and then I turn on the windshield wipers and the headlights all at once and don't know how to turn them back off. They don't have that shit at NASCAR.
"Okay, pretty good, Eric," Adler says noncommittally once I've somehow safely gotten us back into the parking lot at a snail's pace. "Tweek, how about you?"
"Uh, can I just, go home now?" I say, gesturing in the direction of my house from my standing position just outside the door of the car. "My mom is, uh, dying of herpes-"
"Part of your grade is observation," Adler says robotically without even looking at me, like he's just reciting, which he almost definitely is. Tweek looks absolutely miserable, like a puppy with mange. He doesn't even have to watch himself, though, so I'm not sure what he's got his knickers in such a twist about.
Would it be inappropriate for me to ask my reformed nicotine junkie, lung cancer risk teacher if he has any Marlboros on him, I wonder. Is it worse to have a panic attack?
Tweek's already in the middle of one before he's even got his seatbelt on. I'm pretty sure I caught something about ‘why are you so fat' while he was jerking around his poor seat controls mercilessly, and by the time he's figured out how not to accidentally yank the key out of the ignition by turning it without treating it like the pin of a grenade I am thoroughly prepared to puke my case of nerves out all over Adler's shiny fat scalp. I'm not even offended by that first bit. He's wrong, of course, but I'm too freaked out to be pissy.
"No!" Tweek is whimpering, and I realize that it's in response to the same question I'd gotten, about if he'd ever had any experience with driving. The emotion I'm experiencing at the present moment is what we call a rational phobia, children.
"Well, it's real simple," Adler smothers, reaching out to show Tweek where to put his hands. Tweek instantly makes a strangled sound and retracts all his limbs close to himself, leaving Adler clutching at nothingness. "Er... you just turn the key in the ignition, and shift into drive. Then you put your foot on the gas-"
"Is the gas the right pedal?!"
"Yes, it is, and after that all you have to worry about is steering. It's as simple as that." Adler sits back in his seat, looking like he doesn't at all believe that it is, in fact, as simple as that, and I know he's got his loafers hovering right over the passenger-side special driver's ed brake.
I swallow, hard, and twist my fingers into the doubtlessly filthy upholstery. "Mr. Adler, can I please get out. I'm going to be completely honest here and say that if you don't let me out of here, I'm going to puke day-old whiskey and old man jizz all over the car."
"Stop screwing around!" comes the response from the front seat, and I wonder how I didn't see that coming.
I can literally feel the vibrations through the floorboards as Tweek delicately rests his toes on the pedal. Somehow I've ended up with my hands wrapped around the headrest of his seat, which is also quivering like a wet Chihuahua, but he's hunched so far over the steering wheel that he doesn't even notice. I'm holding on for dear life, too horrified to watch but too scared to stop watching, and then we're moving, slow as fuck, in a line so solidly straight it could be every Republican's darling.
"Is this real life?" I ask no one, quietly, in an impression of another, considerably more well-known demented back-seat boy.
If you listen close enough, you can hear a looping mantra of ‘oh god oh jesus' from the dude with the overlarge shirt and the fucked-up hair piloting our vehicle. It does a great job of covering for the lack of radio, surprisingly enough. "That's good, Tweek," Adler says in that voice every single person seems to use when they're trying not to bug out someone who's already pretty bugged out anymore than they already are. "Now see if you can just make it out into the street and back into the parking lot, like Eric did."
"Ohhhh, my god," our chauffeur responds, in a drawn-out panicked hiss. He jerks the steering wheel, but corrects himself just as quickly before I have a chance to hyperventilate, sending us cruising towards the open street. We're cruising for the open street, and I'm literally trapped in a tin box of death piloted by an amped-up paranoid hummingbird. Send help.
"Good, now stop," Adler instructs, and Tweek rams the brakes, content in finally finding something that it doesn't matter if he overdoes at the moment. At a snail's pace, whiplash isn't really a big concern. Tweek's head is swinging back and forth like a video game robot sentry.
"God, someone's coming!" And indeed, someone is coming, in a car that rivals ours for structural instability. I catch a glance in the window as they pass.
Yeah, that Thomas kid, the one with Tourettes? I have just enough time to remember his name before he honks a friendly honk, Tweek screeches bloody murder, and we lunge forward into the street inches away from his back bumper before Adler slams on his brake.
"Jesus Christ! Fuck this, that's fucking it, screw you guys, I'm going home!" Somehow I manage to find purchase on the lock of the door despite its retraction into the plastic shell, somehow I manage to bust out onto the street and start running like hell, somehow I'm making record time before I even hear Adler's strangled yells of "Stop screwing around! You're never going to pass if you keep screwing around!"
And oh my god, by the time I get home, I never want to smell coffee ever again, and I definitely don't want to see another car as long as I live. I just grab my cat and curl up in a ball on the couch and sort of shake for a while, which, while unpleasant, is not altogether an unfamiliar position.
If anyone ever finds out about that, though, absolutely all of their shit can and will be fucked up.
I manage to regain my balls in a matter of minutes, involving a lot of cat-hugging and the swearing off of the company of Tweek Tweak, but I do at least have the decency to leave the eighty bucks for the month of classes I won't be attending on my mom's pillow before I leave that night. She should be damn thankful that I gave up roughly a third of last night's cash, because that money means a lot more to my pockets than it does to hers.
No way in hell she's getting a fucking thank-you note, though.
Friday nights are actually busier than Saturdays. It sounds weird, but apparently after a whole day to relax and drink beer and watch football with their hairy pregnant-man guts hanging out of their wifebeaters, the average Colorado redneck is sufficiently either drunk or relaxed enough to not really spend the evening drinking their paychecks away. It takes almost a half-hour longer for the first potential customers to trickle in, and even then it's a very familiar cluster of obviously skunked college kids who huddle in a corner and honk at each other without even ordering anything.
After a cursory glance at my polished glass tankard, I can quite clearly see that my standard teal eyeshadow clashes badly with my purple sequined dress of the evening, which, admittedly, I wouldn't be wearing if everything else I own wasn't covered with the stench of a thousand desperate men (and even a few women.) So I return to my home base of the restroom and start washing it off to replace with gold, which looks just awful with my skin tone but all my makeup is obnoxious hooker colors so I'm kind of up shit creek on that front. I don't have a washcloth, only a bunch of paper towels that curdle in my hands as soon as water touches them, and this low-quality sludge keeps dripping into my eyes and making them hurt even worse. I sure hope infected blue sclera are attractive.
Even though this is where I spend half my time these days, I really hate public bathrooms. Who wants to be only feet away from someone who's taking a shit, and vice versa? I mean, the privacy walls actually make it worse. You're left with the soundtrack of excrement and your imagination fills in the blanks. And alone, they're too big and empty and filled with the odors of those who were there before. Before I know it, I'm singing under my breath, shaky when my teal fashion disaster makes me wince.
this way i'm feeling i just can't deny
The door swings open and it takes all my effort not to seize up and try to pretend I'm not there. Well, that's one confused guy for the evening. I close my eyes, even though the ‘if you can't see them they can't see you' strategy is disappointingly ineffective, and do my best to act like I'm not wearing a cocktail dress and coral-red lipstick, and not fixing my makeup, and I'm just another average dude singing Rihanna songs in an empty bathroom until I hear the footsteps stop without further offense. I guess I can just carry on, then?
we found love in a hopeless place
I guess the one good thing about redoing my eyes is that I can fuck around with the yellow and do stuff that would venture too far into the realm of trashy for my tastes with blue. Honestly, I do still have my pride. I drag the eyeliner out behind the far corners, which makes me look something like a shaved cat, but at the same time it would be kind of cool if I wasn't a guy. I'm not making any Maybelline ads anytime soon, to be sure, but it's almost embarrassing how good I'm getting at this.
as your shadow crosses mine
"You know, you've always had a real nice voice," says my faceless companion from down the row of sinks. I blink at myself a few times before turning to address my audience, and involuntarily let out a sigh of frustration, because if I was confusing in little more than a dress, than this miniskirt-and-heels-wearing, short-blonde-mop-having not-girl is reaching Cheshire Cat tiers of befuddlement. Not necessarily in regards to just how feminine he looks, but how the hell he keeps managing to find me when I'm begging the universe for anything but that to happen.
"Butters, seriously, why are you here?" I say impatiently, tapping my fake nails (pink tonight) on the sink. I don't care if I look ridiculous; I am going to be taken seriously, goddamnit.
"I'm fixing my lipstick!" he responds with a smile, in a voice that just reeks of question-dodging.
"No, you stupid twink, I mean why are you at my bar for the second night in a row in a J-Mart miniskirt?" I cross my arms over my chest and just glare.
Butters' smile wavers, one of his hands rubbing the opposite forearm nervously. "Um... Well, to tell the truth, I don't have a job, so... I'm here to... you know, make some money," he mumbles, blushing for real under his fake pink cheeks, his eyes flickering towards the scummy tiles.
I deepen my glare. "You're whoring."
Butters winces like someone pulled a punch inches from his face. "Well, um... I guess I am." He raises his gaze and looks at me earnestly. "But I swear it's just for the money!"
"I don't care why you're doing it, asshole! I care where you're doing it! This is my territory!" I snap at him, doing my best to seem as big and as looming as possible. Which, okay, is probably not entirely fair, seeing as I'm about half a foot taller than him and twice as heavy, but it's his fault for being such a twiggy little fairy, anyway. "You aren't getting a dime of my profits!"
Butters blinks up at me, looking apologetic but surprisingly not backing down in the slightest. "Gee, I'm sorry, Eric. I didn't realize that I wasn't the first one to think of it, but I really, really do need some money right now. I don't have enough to even pay for rent or groceries, and I promise if I had had a little more time to plan I would have, but do you think we could work something out?"
"I don't care about your sob story, Butters," I growl. "All I care about is who wants their dick sucked, and who gets paid for doing it. The first one changes, but I promise you, the answer to the second one will always be me. Got it?"
Okay, I really don't like the determined cast that his face gets sometimes. It never fails to mean bad news for me. "How about a contest?" he offers, spreading his hands in appeasement. "We see who gets the most customers, and then at the end of a couple of weeks, the winner stays and the loser goes home. Or... wherever," he finishes meekly.
I can't fucking believe this. The little bastard is actually challenging me. He's challenging me at something I've been doing for two years and that he just stared yesterday. My hands ball into fists at my sides, and before I know it I've broken one of my fake nails, which does nothing to help my mood. "Okay! Okay, you wanna play hardball? You're on! We're on!" I start gathering up my clutch bag of makeup and squirreling it away inside my less incriminating backpack indignantly. "I always knew you were a little fag, Butters, but now I'm going to beat you at your own game!" A brief flash of hair gel and Marilyn Monroe shirts surfaces in my head; to be honest, however, I think this argument is manlier than the one we had with Craig a decade ago.
He watches me go, fidgeting with a tube of lipstick that's some stupid earth-tone shade he can't honestly expect to get noticed wearing. "May the best man win," he says softly, sounding so ridiculously warm and friendly it takes all of my energy not to channel that stupid monsters movie and growl ‘I plan to.'
I strut out into the bar, considerably more crowded than it was, and make sure to get under all the lights I typically try to avoid to garner as much attention as possible through the use of my sequins. I walk right the fuck up to those stoners, lean on their table, put on my pretty voice, and smirk, "Have you boys seen the back room yet?"
That gets their attention. And even though, on the way to the back hall where Kirby makes sure he's not going to get arrested for the stupid shit drunks like to do in public, I'm already flinching at their dreadlocks and ‘non-conformist' ideals and the fact that I have no idea how I'm going to keep all three of them occupied when I'm seriously not letting anyone touch my ass, I can probably at least stock up on pot one way or another. Fucking suck on that, Butters.
Bebe Stevens commented on Eric Cartman's Wall.
Red wants to know if youre still coming tonight so she can buy enough food.
Eric Cartman replied:
har dee fucking har, bitch. i wasn't planning on it but now i'm going just to piss you off. ;)
Bebe Stevens replied:
But that doesnt piss me off, cartman. I honestly dont care. Im probably not even going to talk to you. :/
Eric Cartman replied:
keep telling yourself that. also what am i going to again?
Kenny McCormick replied:
It's Rebecca's party in celebration of her art gallery opening. Honestly, Cartman, I live on the other side of the country and I know that. Oh, and, hi, Bebe.
Bebe Stevens replied:
Hi kenny!! :)
Eric Cartman replied:
kenny, what the fuck are you doing here? this doesn't concern you, poor boy. run along now. ta-ta.
Kenny McCormick replied:
And pass up quality entertainment like this? No thank you.
No, but really, I wasn't being an asshole, what party? I don't get why girls think they have to be so organized and on-time and pre-planned all the time. How do they expect us guys to remember an invite we got three months ago? I click over into my calendar menu and stare at the event.
Red's Big Artsy Bash!!
Date:
Today
Wendy Testaberger, Stan Marsh, Clyde Donovan, and 17 other friends are attending.
Rebecca Marshall invited you five days ago.
Rebecca Marshall created this event six days ago.
... You don't say?
Well, I guess that means I've got to get a different kind of dressed up tonight. Which I fucking hate doing. I used to have this really awesome tuxedo t-shirt that I wore to everything, but then something happened I'd rather not discuss at this juncture, and now I can't even look at it without thinking of hangovers and Jew butts. So now I have to go find a nice, non-offensive shirt, that isn't covered in Fraulein love, because gray is equally visible on dark and light colors. And then I'll show up and raid the coolers and ignore everything that isn't in a bottle, and everyone will think that, just because I'm a big guy and I know how to drink, that I'm the life of the goddamn party. Sorry, Charlie, but I ain't putting any lampshades on my head tonight...
Wait, shit. Please tell me he isn't going.
Butters Stotch's Wall
going to go try to get the situation with my apartment figured out!! along with working out the stove, should take most of the day. oh well, i sure hope everyone has a good time at Rebecca Marshall's tonight!!
Disregarding the immense list of likes on a stupid status like that, I don't know what situation, what apartment, and what stove problems he's referring to, and I'm not spending a second longer on his poisonously cheerful Facebook any longer to find out. Oh, and I don't care. Have I mentioned I don't care? Because I don't.
Fucking fuckface Butters is making my stomach do this weird boiling thing without being anywhere near me, and if it wasn't quite clear it's really starting to piss me off. I mean, for my insides to be doing these kind of acrobatics, he must have really done something to deserve it even if I'm not remembering what, right? I'm not sure whether him not being there is any better than the alternative, especially because he's probably using his shitty house or whatever as an excuse to get ahead in our little game.
Motherfucking Butters.
I don't really want to settle in to play Skyrim right now. There's this foreboding feeling that I'm going to start something and not be able to finish by the time I have to leave to go to Red's or Bebe's or whichever bitch's it is party. Which is kind of ridiculous, considering it's eleven now and the party starts at eight-thirty, and even taking into consideration that I'm still laying in bed and having a staring contest with the ceiling, if I get my ass up I've still got upwards of eight hours to do whatever the proud, brave, pathetically needy Nords need doing this particular day, but I know Murphy's Law as well as the next guy and besides, it's easy to get reeled in by useless lazy shits who think you're God.
So I guess I'm going to catch up on all the sober sleep I've been missing out on. I set my iPhone aside and roll back over, pulling up my comforter over my head and closing my eyes again. That's all fine and well for all of two minutes before Frau comes over and sits on my head.
I guess I forgot to feed her.
Groaning, I use my fingernails to drag myself up and out of the warm embrace of emotionless fabric, unceremoniously shaking off my cat in the process, which makes me feel a little douchey. But really, if you can teach a cat to take a piss like a person, why can't you teach them to... I don't know, open fridges and cans, and actually, forget it, that wouldn't work at all.
I dump a can of food onto a plate half-heartedly and leave the can next to it so she can lick out the insides herself, because I don't want to remember where the forks are right now. Then I return to my humble, shitwreck abode, which could really use some Febreeze but you can't smell while you're asleep, so what's it matter, anyway?
I settle in and nothing happens. I flip onto my side and nothing happens. The silence is ringing in my ears, and I'm like, shit, why can't I settle down, my weed's at the bar, do I just need to give myself a nice old-fashioned, but my dick still fucking hurts from those goddamn unstoppable hippies and I don't even want to go there. Why did I even get out of bed? Having feelings sucks, I wish I wasn't so attached to my cat. Giving up, I dig around in my nightstand for my best set of headphones that don't leave the house because they're super huge and cost a hundred bucks, and clamp them over my ears, cranking The Sign and sitting up resignedly.
So, okay, most of my playlists consist of girls with big hair and weird outfits singing in outrageous keys, but that shit is cool and fun to sing along to, and anyone who thinks it's not manly probably touches themselves to Twilight. Which isn't even cool if you're a teenage girl anymore, so haha, assholes.
And besides, unless you listen to faggy alternative music, most guy singers aren't even close to hot. Which leaves you the choice of listening to relatively good shit, like My Darkest Days, and wanting to puke every time you see their picture, or listening to bad shit like The Ready Set and wanting to fuck them raw.
I don't know how anyone can say my life isn't hard when this is the shit I have to deal with on a regular basis.
I'm going to eat everything in the fridge due to an unattended case of the munchies and puke it all back up minutes later if I don't find something to occupy myself with. I end up making the decision to go through my music and pare back on the songs I don't listen to, which are mostly dumb emotional ‘real music' things that Kenny sends every so often from the city and a couple of Stan's incredibly rough and migraine-inducing demo tracks. See how good a friend I am? It's not my fault that I'm surrounded by ungrateful bastards. Regardless, though, I have some good-ass taste in music, and I mostly end up listening to all of my absolute favorite songs. Music is so much better when you're exhausted, I think, and before I know it I'm drifting off into a blissful state of nothingness.
So if anyone ever asks me why I was late to Red's party, I can just say that I ended up falling asleep with my feet still up on the bed and my shoulders buried in a pile of jizz-covered dresses on the floor, only woke up when my 100-odd song playlist ended, tried to get some lunch/dinner and fell over due to a distinct lack of feeling in my legs, and only realized when I finally got to the kitchen that I was a half-hour late and simultaneously tried to change my shirt and run like hell to get to her stupid fucking art gallery.
Or I can just say I got lost.
"I thought Red was supposed to be classy," I yell down the makeshift table-bar.
Stan squints at me, obviously trying to decode what I'm trying to say over the thumping bass. I'm wearing a black t-shirt emblazoned with the words ‘I was offended by Holden Caulfield and all I got was this lousy shirt' and my hat, and Stan's wearing a Raging Pussies shirt that looks like it's supposed to be pajamas and his hat, and between the two of us we look like we crashed the fancy-pants party. The operative word being ‘look'. Any illusion of maturity possessed by our compatriots is instantly shattered by the fact that all the promising young adults are grinding on each other to LMFAO, and have been for the entire hour I've been here.
"What?" Stan finally barks over the thumping bass, giving up entirely.
I shake my head and take a long swig of my IPA before wiping my mouth and changing the question entirely. "Why are you even here? I thought you didn't party anymore."
"I don't- fucking shit," Stan growls, dragging his chair along the floor so he doesn't have to strain his voice any more, even if it means he's practically sitting in my lap now. "I don't party, and I didn't want to come to this shitstain gallery, okay? I'm just here because Kyle wanted me to go."
"Kyle's here?" He nods in ascent and gestures into the crowds, where, indeed, firecrotch himself is chatting up our host and a couple other of her cunt friends, smiling and looking so emphatic about everything he's saying inaudibly that I have to remind myself that he's a devoted Marsh-dick fan and not cruising to get any of their number in bed by the end of the night. He looks fucking stupid, wearing a stupid cardigan and stupidly tight pants along with his stupid hat, which makes me feel stupid in turn when I can't help but think about how his stupid gay ass looks nothing short of delicious in those jeans.
I'm not enjoying this fucking party. I haven't seen most of these douchebags offline for months, and everywhere I look is reminder after reminder of the way I spent my school days- angrily lusting over just about everyone I knew and working myself into situations where I could be a fucking creepy pervert. I could never decide whether I was more interested in fucking hating everyone, or just fucking everyone. I mean, jesus, I've seen just about every boy in the room's cock for ‘precise measurements', which my subconscious made a lot less innocent than it was, Wendy tried to suck my face off in front of an audience, I had the balls to ask Clyde a rather risqué question just because he didn't know French, I've reenacted Silence of the Lambs in great detail with Bebe, and Kyle, fucking Kyle, I've seen his goddamn sex face and I can't forget it no matter what I try.
I've fucked up my life so efficiently that even talking to Stan is awkward at this point, but it's actually one of the least embarrassing things available to do in this death trap of a room at the moment. "Apparently he's hot shit now that he's got the deal with Nintendo," Stan says to my left, and be still my heart, does he actually sound bitter? I turn back to look at him and he's slumped over his beer, glaring into its amber depths. I just now notice that he looks like hell, his eyes all crusty and dark-circles, his usually flawlessly choppy hair now just a big mussed-up mop. But, yet again, I seem to be all out of fucks to give.
"Yeah, well, I guess programming Zelda gets chicks wet now. I thought that was supposed to be the exact opposite of reality, but what do you know." I put my elbows on the bar, and between the two of us we look like a couple of world-weary hardened drunkards, which I suppose we are, to varying degrees.
We sit there for a few tense minutes before Stan sighs and gets to his feet. "I gotta take a piss." I nod absently and don't look up as he walks off into the throngs. He left his phone right on the table, and I try to resist, I really do, but that's just bona fide asking for it. I click on the most recent email in his inbox, dated from around lunchtime today.
To: Stanley Marsh (smarsh@parkcountycollege.com)
From: Kyle Broflovski (69ingchipmunks@me.com)
Subject: hows school treating you?
Attachment(s): boredasfuck4.jpeg, boredasfuck5.jpeg, seriouslyimeanitimsuperlonely.jpeg, heytherelittlemama.jpeg
Text: heres a better lesson plan for you. might wanna make sure the kids dont get their hands on your phone. hurry home; as you can see i could use some higher education <3 ky
I hate it when Jews think they're funny. Kyle's pathetic attempts at educational humor are just painful, and I'm imagining the pictures can't be anything more than some stupid overused grammatically challenged cats from 2005 that no doubt he found amusing. I click on one out of morbid curiosity.
... There aren't any cats in this picture. There isn't much of anything, really, except a whole lot of Kyle. And nothing else, including clothes.
I calmly close everything out, set Stan's phone back by his beer, and fold my hands in my lap, trying to pretend that that little reminder didn't just make this whole situation a hundred times more uncomfortable, and also that I'm not trying not to pop an awkward boner over his goddamn freckly fucking ginger shitty big-nosed face.
You know what we're not gonna do? Not gonna look over there. Okay, I'm looking over there. Not gonna imagine him making that face, then. No. Goddamn it, Cartman, can't you even listen to yourself?
Something hits me solidly between the shoulderblades and I lash around with a scowl. "'Ay!"
"Dude, relax," mumbles Stan, pushing off of me and wobbling on his feet. "I just lost my balance." His eyes are solidly fixed downwards as he slides back onto his stool, and I realize he's watching his feet.
I scoff lightly. "Oh my god, how many beers have you had and you're drunk already? Wow, Marsh, I thought you weren't ‘like that' anymore-"
"No," Stan snarls emphatically, his head whipping up to face me with a very real glare. His eyes are like ice chips, hard and cold, and I actually recoil on my seat and freeze there with an incredulous look on my face until he relaxes and slumps back onto the bar. "I... I don't... I thought I wasn't supposed to get drunk OR depressed anymore, but what do you know. Why do you think I didn't want to come."
I blink, the wheels slowly turning. "Because of ADT?" Stan just nods.
Yeah, okay, I suppose I can probably stop beating around the bush here. The first, last, and only time Kyle ever got drunk, I was there to capture the glory, though I'm not about to tell the story to just everyone. Basically, at Stan's eighteenth birthday, me and beer met for the first time and quickly became secret best friends, so when Stan dragged Kyle with him to a party I just happened to be hanging out at a few months later, it seemed like an awful weird coincidence. We got drunk, went back to Stan's place, got drunker, and made some pretty bad decisions, mostly involving me doing my best and failing to brush off Stan and making out with Kyle for the second time (I have a lot of history, okay? The first time was when we were fourteen and both equally confused, now shut up and listen) which eventually ended up being, in the words of the internet, gratuitous spitroasting. Which was all fine and well, I mean, I might as well be honest and say I have a little bit of a fixation with that redheaded fucker, until he woke up the next morning and realized that I was in his and Stan's sleeping pile too, and was highly unamused to discover that I was the one who'd muscled in on his mouth mid-sexy time. So that is why I haven't been over to Stan's house since, nor has Kyle touched alcohol, and we have not been able to carry a civil (for Kyle) or normal (for Stan) conversation for two years.
So, to be less graphic, ADT stands for Awkward Drunken Threesome, which is the one thing we could all agree on afterwards. Because, at least the morning after, I have been informed it was terrible, for everyone, and that includes me.
Kind of fucking sucks since it was my first time and all, but they don't know that, so.
I draw myself up in indignation. "Oh, that's real nice, Stan. It's not like you're the one getting dirty pictures on your phone or anything, oh no. I'm the whorish one because you and your little boyfriend can't keep your hands off of me, and you don't trust me around a keg when really you're the one with a problem. Good to know!"
Stan looks at me blearily, his expression making it quite clear that he simply does not want to fuck around. "Pictures? I- Cartman, really, I don't give a shit. We're not doing this right now."
"No, we're certainly not," I grumble, getting to my feet. "See you later, I'm going home." And the more I think about it, the more of a reason I have to be pissed off. It's Stan's fucking fault that I'm a hopeless alcoholic at the age of almost-20, making it thereby Stan's fucking fault that I also got into smoking and pot. And, most importantly, it's Stan's goddamn motherfucking fault that the first person to ever touch my dick was an incredibly drunk guy who now hates me even more than before, that I've got a big old hole in my chest that I keep giving blowjobs for money for in the hopes that it'll eventually fill in, that I'm heading nowhere and I'm heading there fast, because it's Stan's fault that I fucked up.
But, you know, I'm an asshole, so what does it matter.
He makes no move to get up as I head for my jacket, but by the time I've remembered where the coatroom is and am on my way to the outside world, his seat is empty. Despite myself, I stop by the door, scanning the crowd for him until- yep, he's next to Kyle, big surprise. He appears to be talking to him quite intently, one hand on his arm, and I've got a feeling that he's asking him if he wants to go yet.
Kyle looks confused, eyebrows rumpling in a frown, and he shakes his head, mouthing ‘why?'
Stan looks increasingly frustrated, opens and closes his mouth a few times, then finally just grabs Kyle by the shoulders and kisses him really, really hard. No, really, I just walk right the fuck out as soon as I see tongue from across the room.
Maybe being emotionally involved or whatever makes it different, but I wouldn't do that in public even and especially with a customer. But I guess maybe getting paid is different than just straight-up getting laid. I guess I wouldn't know what it's like if both parties actually give a damn.
Seeing as that pretty much describes my life, you'd think I'd be used to it by now.
six little eggs on the run
they fuck each other
three goes boom dubi um
watch out be safe cos
It's late. It's really late, I should be home now, but I'm not in the mood for passing out in a drunken stupor and having to deal with its consequences tomorrow morning today. So here I am, sitting in the back room, playing trance music way quieter than is intended, wiping my hands of what is really not sunscreen, and stoning myself to sleep.
three little eggs had sex
one win and two explode
goes boom dubi um
watch out stay safe cos
The back room is pretty sweet, considering that people, myself included, only come here to fuck and get high. It's got a nice big couch covered in overstuffed red pillows, and the walls are a nice warm gray. Unfortunately the lights are shitty flickery fluorescent bulbs and people don't have the decency to take out their goddamn trash anymore, not to mention it's absolutely filthy.
two little eggs in the sun
one sleep too long
goes boom boom boom dubi um
the story ends with
The door opens just a crack, and I look up, buzzed enough to not really care who sees the joint in my hand or how bloody I know my eyes are. "Oh, good, you are back here!"
Without further invitation, Butters minces into the room and half-sits, half-leans against a hulking pile of pillows opposite me on the couch. He's wearing glittery eyeshadow and pink tights full of holes up the fronts, and a black jacket over a low-cut t-shirt instead of his usual tanktop thing. And I know it must be a cheap as shit outfit, but the fact that he looks so effortlessly good in it makes me actually feel a touch of anger, even through the haze. But I'm pretty low, so I just stare at him from under my blue-painted eyelids and say groggily, "What?"
one little egg walks blind
makes story stick with pen
boom boom dubi um
another story come.
"Well, I was, I was looking for you," Butters says, bouncing his outsized sneakers against the couch- fuck, is he ripping off my skirt-sneakers thing now? That little shit- and doing his best to smile. "To see how you're doing?"
I have no idea what he's talking about. "I'm fine," I say flatly after a long drag and a longer exhale.
Butters looks mildly alarmed. "What? No, I mean- well, I'm glad you're doing okay, but I mean, are we still having that contest?" He blushes furiously at his own words, which strikes me as more than a little stupid- I mean, it was his idea to do this in the first place.
"I guess," I mumble indifferently, turning my head to look at nothing on the wall.
"So, um." Jesus, talking to Butters is like dragging a dinosaur through molasses. He looks at the floor, then at the ceiling, and finally starts, uncertainly, "Do you wanna maybe say how much money we made the first week?"
"Thousand three hundred." I try to look as nonchalant as possible dropping this bombshell, instead of smirking like I'd like to. Hit the fucking jackpot of desperate fuckers with cash to throw around this week. Of course, I kind of had to prowl around to make up for the day I missed torturing myself at that fucking party, but whatever.
There's a long pause, where I don't turn to look at Butters because I don't want to burst out laughing stupid stoner laughter at him, and then he just says, "Oh." And it sends a bolt of unease straight into the pit of my stomach, because he actually sounds apologetic. I look at him with wide eyes, shaken from indifference for the first time since he entered the room.
"Oh? What's oh?"
"Oh, um... oh," Butters stammers, knocking his knuckles together in a gesture I haven't seen in years. It's a stinging reminder that somewhere under all that makeup and clothing and perfect hair, there's actually a boy, one that I've known for most of my life, and it just serves to piss me off even more that he can so flawlessly pose as a girl. "It's nothing, really, um, just... Better luck next week, I guess?"
"What the fuck are you talking about," I intone as sharply as I can manage.
"It's no big deal, Eric, I just made..." He stares down at his shoes and mutters and I have to slap my hand on the ground to get him to look up again, because snapping at him doesn't seem work the effort. "I made almost seven thousand dollars, okay," he says meekly, immediately following it up with, "But I had to spend most of it on the apartment and on buying a new stove, so I don't actually have any money, so I guess you're winning, maybe?"
I'm just there, staring with my fucked-up eyes, eyebrows pinched into an incredulous frown, because seriously, seven thousand dollars? I haven't made that much in... ever. He's cheating. Little bastard set up another pimp ring, he's gotta be cheating. Or he's lying. That's it, he's fucking lying. I'd at least have thought he'd know better than to lie to me at this point. "Great," I say in a flat voice.
"Yeah, so... week two," Butters chirps in a falsely happy voice, and we sit there in the back room and the silence. He's fidgety as all hell, straightening the pillows, brushing his scene-girl hair into a bunch of different sweeps and contours, and wrinkling his nose every so often, tossing out a comment occasionally.
"I didn't know you rolled your own cigarettes." I don't say anything. "Does it smell funny in here to you?" I don't say anything. "Wait, Eric, is that a really real cigarette?"
Thought he'd never figure that stumper out. "This?" I flourish my joint, sending a graceful arc of smoke through the air and holding it out for his inspection. "Why, doesn't it smell like one?" I feign innocence.
Butters leans forward cautiously, takes a careful sniff, and almost instantly bursts out coughing. "No, it almost smells like... what was that thing Mr. Mackey had us smell, that stinky stuff? What is that?" he finally asks, stifling another round of coughs and making his voice sound watery.
"I believe this exact strain is known as Rainy Day Woman," I deadpan before sticking the red-stained paper back between my lips and closing my eyes to him.
There's a stretch of silence before he says, in a very urgent, concerned tone, "Eric, didn't Mr. Mackey always tell us that marijuana is super duper double bad news?"
He actually talks like that. I sigh and shift into a position where I can get a better glare going at this innocent little prick. "Oops." I'm actually surprised at what I see looking back at me. Butters is wide-eyed, his forehead rumpled in a worried pout, his hands balled into little fists of determination. It would be cute if it weren't so annoying. I groan, roll my shoulders, and level my gaze with his. "Look. It's only bad news if you think not giving a fuck about anything is bad news. If you think keeping your cool no matter what pussy-ass fags the world decides to throw at you is bad news, then I guess it sure is. If you think not hurting for a while is bad news, then watch your shit, because pot is not the drug for you!" I finish my infomercial spiel with an overexaggerated wave of my fingers, then slump back against the wall and sneer at him jadedly.
Butters appears to actually have been taken down a notch or two, although unfortunately apparently completely missed the part about weed being the cure for Stotch overdose. He fiddles with the hem of his skirt, knotting it between his thin pianist fingers that look just so breakable, then finally looks up with an apprehensive squint. "You really don't care about anything?"
"Nope." I do my best to blow a smoke ring, fail entirely, and sigh.
"Huh." Butters shuffles on the couch, rearranging himself so he's facing the opposite wall as where I've been pointedly burning holes with my gaze, and I figure maybe he's gonna take a nap at twelve at night or something and go back to fiddling with my iPod. He's doing this irritating coughing thing, these little gentle hiccups that should belong to Tinkerbell, but fuck that shit, I'm not putting this thing out for nothing. But after a couple minutes of Madonna he's getting too loud to ignore much longer, and I dig around in my foggy brain to remember how to get my face into the most unamused snarl I can manage before turning.
It's wasted, though. He's not even looking at me. In fact, he's staring almost pointedly away from me, his hand hanging down the side of the couch, turned slightly towards me. As I watch, his fingers wiggle a bit.
I look from his hand to mine and back again. Then I experimentally reach out and slide the roach between his fingers.
Butters's hand instantly shoots up, meeting with his opposite hand near his face, and he inspects my shitty job of rolling like a squirrel appraising a nut. I have to resist the urge to roll my eyes, but it's a lot easier than normal to keep control of myself.
"Don't let it go out," I say placidly.
His shoulders seize like he's forgotten I'm here, but he still keeps his face turned away. I feel like I'm watching something I shouldn't be, and I'm cool with that. Butters spins my skunkweed cigarette between his fingers and brings it to his mouth and just sucks.
Oh, sweet merciful tits of fuckall. "Careful," I say in subdued alarm, but it's way too late. Butters's eyes go wide and he doubles up on the couch, making his earlier coughing fit look like nothing. Shit, that hurts just to listen to. He's clawing for breath between spasms, little tendrils of smoke skittering out of his nostrils and from between his lips with every move he makes. I feel a vague sense of guilt. When he regains the control to look back at me, his eyes are glassy and tired-looking, but there's that sense of determination again before he snaps into another lung-shredding cough.
"That's-- real strong," he eventually pants.
"You gotta go slow, dude," I say in retrospect.
"T-thanks." With anyone else you'd be drowning in sarcasm, but he actually sounds sincerely grateful (for what, I'm not sure). Butters gets to his feet slowly and bends at the waist, still trying to get his lungs under control, and meanwhile I'm just sitting by the door and watching this whole spectacle and not doing a goddamn thing to help. C'est la vie, I suppose. If I wasn't sitting here, I doubt I would have heard his next words, uncharacteristically low in his voice: "Gosh, this better be worth it."
You know, I'm starting to think that maybe this was a really bad thing to assent to, but like I said: oops.
Butters rears up and sweeps his false hair back into place, his chest moving in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Cautiously, he leans back against the wall, still staring at me with a disturbing amount of trust, and brings my joint back to his mouth, taking a careful, shallow breath.
"It's still going to suck for a while." I really need to work on my timing.
Christ, I don't know what's got him so convinced here, but he works himself down into a place where he just coughs into his hands so quietly I don't know he's doing it until I see his shoulders shake. For a long time he keeps his head down in concentration, and when he finally raises it again he's wearing my eyes, glazed, huge, and red.
Butters runs his tongue around his lips shakily. "I," he says, and his expression is like nothing I've ever seen on him.
I hold out my hand and flick my fingers for my weed back.
"Oh my god," Butters whispers, and practically slaps the damn thing into my hand, dragging his back down the wall and collapsing on the floor like me so our toes almost touch. His fingers fly to his mouth and cup around a gasp, or maybe a cough, it's hard to tell at this point.
"Uh-huh," I mutter haltingly. Was I that much of a pussy the first time? I honestly can't remember, and seeing as I was alone in my room at the time I don't have anyone to ask. I take a hit and it stops the questions in their tracks.
"Eric," Butters says urgently.
I squint at him. "What do you want?"
He's wide-eyed, taking me in like this is the most important thing he'll ever say, and he speaks with an over-enunciated falter. "I think I need some more." Shrugging, I lean forward and pass it back, the most annoying part of the gesture being the fact that I actually have to sit up.
And that's the way we spend too much time, smoking away my money. Probably if I wasn't in a blissful state of fucklessness, I'd be pissed at Butters for barging in on me and at myself for sharing with the cocksucker, but as it is I guess I can call a temporary truce. It's weird; his hands never stop moving, practically battling each other or clutching into his gold-floss wig, whereas I'm just sprawled in a lump of much-abused young adult, and moving actually kind of sucks. He doesn't have the bad case of pothead's mouth that I've seen far too often from the college kids who come in here, the mile-a-minute groggy senseless blabbering that I seem to be immune to, but when I look over at him half the time his lips are moving on words I can't hear. Suddenly I'm glad I can't read lips, because yet again, I don't fucking want to know.
"I'm soooo hungry," is the only thing he eventually says audibly. "Oh jeez, is it breakfast yet?"
Butters has clearly left the building, and opportunity strikes my mind pretty hard, at least as hard as it can at present. I can ask him anything. I can ask him how he cheated, or why he's doing this to me, or just tell him to leave me the hell alone, and I'd probably get whatever response I wanted to. I haven't messed around with anyone's head in too long. But what I end up saying is simply, "Why are you here?"
He raises his head slowly, looking confused but indifferent, which is a weird look for him. I think I could get used to it, though, if he stays this down. "Here?" he croaks, snuffling. Butters shrugs gently, his shoulders slumping up around his jawline. "I'm here because it's the only place I can go."
Just that is a pretty sizable revelation compared to his previous tight-lipped stance, and I want to pry further, but right about then I realize I'm going against my strict not-giving-a-fuck guidelines. And suddenly, it hits me just how stupid this is, getting some kid I used to know and still hate stoned out of his mind, and I pack my shit and go before he can say anything more. Before I actually start to listen to him.
Kenny McCormick
Mpfffhm fhmmm!
(Apparently people think that I don't actually speak English, only Muffled Parka Language. I will now post nothing but variations on this post so that interpretations of my linguistic skills are not overturned. I apologize for any illusions crushed.)
Oh, right, I almost forgot why I don't go on other people's pages when I have even a trace of my wits about me. Thankfully my phone cuts into my browser right as I'm considering taking revenge for the brain cells I just lost and posting incriminating messages about just where our dear friend Kenny's dick has been on his stupid perfect classy dream girl's page, which, while maybe not necessarily true, are not a huge stretch of the imagination, considering that he's the only one of our once extremely close-knit little group who didn't end up about as straight as the rings of Saturn.
I don't recognize the number, which means it's no one from Facebook, and obviously no one I really care about, which, on second though, pretty much negates the Facebook thing as it applies to more or less everyone. I tap the talk button and raise the phone to my ear cautiously. "Hello?"
The voice on the other end is brisk and shares Pip's stupid French accent, though this one is so proper and effeminate it takes me a second to figure out that it does, in fact, belong to a guy. "Good day, may I speak to Eric Cartman?"
"You already are."
"Mr. Cartman, I'm with the Harbucks recruitment offices for the Denver area. I'm calling in regards to an application you filed with us some while ago."
Oh, dude, it's about fucking time, I sent that thing in in, like, March. I don't say that, however; what I do say sounds a little too overenthusiastic for my voice, but what do you do. "Yeah, thanks. How'd I do? Did I get the job?"
I can tell I staggered the voice on the other end from his pre-set little path, and he struggles to regain his footing. "Well, erm..." Papers shuffle, and I drum my fingers against the back of my phone impatiently, because this is important, this is actually a really big goddamn deal, if this works than I can just blow off bars and whoring and being a sorry sack of shit and this whole stupid contest and Butters-
"Ah, yes. On behalf of the Harbucks corporation, I would like to thank you for your interest in employment. However, after carefully reviewing your paperwork, we have regretfully decided that there is simply not adequate room in the Harbucks family to offer you a position at this time," the voice rattles automatically.
Adequate room? Family? No job? What? "Wh... Why," I say flatly, in an excellent impersonation of Craig Tucker that makes me want to scrub out my mouth with a cheese grater.
The voice sighs, like I'm the one who just shat on his face. "Mr. Cartman, speaking solely as a representative of the Harbucks committee, we would ask if you are aware that the legal working age in Park County and, indeed, all of Colorado, is sixteen, or even fourteen under specific circumstances?"
I wish he would stop talking like he's a Nazi machine gunner and I'm a filthy Jew on the run. "Yes. Why."
"Well. To be frank, Mr. Cartman, it appears that previously you have not even made an attempt to seek out prior employment. Apparently you have a rather disturbing history of offenses ranging from convictions for possession of alcohol all the way up to suspicion of murder and forced cannibalism, you failed to attend your own graduation, you have expressed no interest in pursuing further education, and honestly, it is the opinion of the committee that you would be nothing but a detriment, and that you entirely ignored ample opportunity to... ahem, ‘grow a pair and step up to the plate.'"
... Christ on a fucking cracker, even if all of that shit is true, no one ever caught me about the cannibalism thing, let alone even seemed to care, especially not when I got fucking kidnapped and almost forced to do the same. And I couldn't go to my graduation, I had a hangover and puked on my gown. That's none of their business. I need this job. I'm not getting this job. "Well," I start, just like he did. No, Cartman. You still have a chance, keep it cool, keep it cool, keep it cool- "In that case, old chap, you can kindly fuck off and-slash-or just suck my assbarf, then." FUCK.
Mercifully, the phone guy seems relatively untroubled by this outburst, which earns my grudging respect. "I apologize, but you are doing little more than shooting the messenger, sir."
My hand loosens up its death grip on my scalp and I stop soundlessly flipping my shit at myself. Deep breaths. I've got this. "You're right, you're right, I'm sorry," I say, flapping my hands as if to wave away my words despite the fact that he can't see me. "Say, what's your name?"
And this question seems to be the most distressing he's encountered thus far. "My name? I am called Gregory Elroy. I believe we've met in the past, I transferred a number of years ago from-"
"Yardale," I finish automatically as the pieces snap into place abrupt as a cobra strike. No wonder it's that faggot. Regardless, I keep my voice level, conversational. It's been a while, but I've still got it. "So what are you, Greg, just a HR guy? Making calls and delivering bad news all day to ungrateful assholes like me? Working for a man who doesn't even give you what you're worth, am I right?"
There's a long pause. "Please do not call me Greg," he says stiffly, but I know instinctively that I've got his attention.
"See, Greg, guh... gurry," I manage to stammer, "you deserve better than this, don't you? But it seems like you can't get any higher without being in bed with the boss. I mean, maybe you are, but that doesn't matter, let's say he's a douche for the sake of explanation. Anyway."
There's no response on the other end and I surge onwards. "So what you want to do is be up front. You just gotta walk in there and put him on the spot, and maybe on the wrong end of a gun, show him you mean business. And just ask nicely. Say please." I wait a beat, give him time to get this priceless advice written down. "And then you'll be the president of Barfucks or whatever it's called, and you're probably going to want to offer a little reward to the guy who got you there, right? We both win."
I'm rather pleased with myself, but Gregory's silence makes me a little unnerved. "Well, maybe you already tried that," I concede, biting at the nails on my other hand and instantly wishing I didn't when I taste glue. "So why don't you just go up there and deliver him a fuck you from yours truly? You don't even have to tell him it was my idea."
"... Gregory?"
I pull my phone from my ear and discover that I've been talking to no one for almost a minute. "Fucking rude, dude," I growl in frustration and embarrassment, and attempt to set my phone on the floor next to the couch but end up slamming it into the floor and dropping my head into my hands with a bitter snarl without even thinking.
It appears I have not, in fact, stopped being pissed off.
Seriously, though, who the fuck are they to judge me on a job I didn't have four years ago, or some family I killed a decade ago, or a handjob I got paid for last night? I can't believe a spazzy little tard like Tweek can get a job lined up with them and I can't; me, with my considerable business experience even if none of it was legit shit. Their quality control leaves a lot to be desired. Those fucking assholes, what makes Tweek so goddamn special, and holy shit, I'm shaking.
Why am I so angry?
I grab one of the throw pillows my mom thinks make the couch look so artsy, wrap my arms and legs around it, curl up in a little ball, stare at the inside cushions of the couch, and don't move any more.
"So I almost had a job," I start, for no good reason, so abruptly it takes my brain a second to catch up to my mouth. And when it does, it's like, dude, I leave for five seconds and you pull this shit, can't I trust you at all?
Butters suddenly stops making pucker lips at himself in the mirror and turns towards me. "Really?" he says, and he sounds so enthusiastic that I could just cry.
"Jesus, Butters, don't be such a tool about it, at least I tried." I put the final touches on my mascara and look forlornly at the clumps of shit left all over the place by my five-dollar convenience-store generic brand brush.
"What?" He looks at me in the mirror, his arms crossed over his chest and a jaunty slant to his hips, face pulled into a confused stare. "I'm not happy because you didn't get it! Oh, gosh, Eric, you thought that? I'm actually real sorry you didn't, but it's great that you were so close!"
For real, though, why is he so goddamn pleased about fucking everything? I catch myself making a very confused, very ugly face in his general direction and shake it off as soon as I can. "I wasn't that close," I end up muttering, my eyes shifting towards the floor of the bathroom defensively. Why am I letting puny little fairy Butters put me on edge like this?
"Um..." Butters shifts back and forth on his cutesy little heels. "Well, it's like you said, at least you tried, right?" I grunt in a way I would never let a potential customer hear. "If it's not a secret or nothing, did they tell you why they wouldn't let you in?" he asks quietly.
I cap up my mascara and make a big show of putting all my makeup away before finally replying, "I've never had a real job, so they think I'm useless." Just a big old drain on resources like always, I almost blurt, but then I shake my head at myself, because obviously his humble pie bullshit is contagious. I'm better than that and certainly better than Butters, what the hell's wrong with me?
When I next look up, though, his eyes have gained about twelve feet of depth in a heartbeat, and it actually stops me in my tracks, how clear his concern is and how utterly sincere he looks. What you see with him is always exactly what you get, and how anyone could let themselves stay so weak I'll never know, but it's almost admirable. "Hold on a second," Butters says finally, trotting across to where his messenger bag is slumped under the automatic hand dryers and bending over to rummage through it.
And, oh my god, his legs are nice. I mean, jesus, I thought I had some nice curvy legs, but his are just so skinny and... tight-looking, I guess, is the only word for the way they look, like anatomically there's nothing on there that doesn't need to be. His heels make them look even longer, somehow, and his skirt's hiked dangerously high, so high that the next thing I know I'm picturing inches of fishnets a million times hotter than mine all the way up. I swallow hard, which just as quickly wants to reverse on me as soon as I get my head back in the moment and remember that this is Butters I'm staring at, and that's just nasty.
I barely manage to tear my eyes away in time before he's clopping back over in the familiar rhythm of high heels. "Eric," he says curiously. "Why are you staring at the wall?"
"I'm not staring at the-" Oh, wait, yes I am. "I was... reading the graffiti," I correct myself lamely, because tammy luvs big black cocks is obviously the lost gospel.
"Well, when you're done, these are for you." Butters would die of poisoning rather than interrupt the thoughts of the man with the antidote. I find myself dragging out the movements of my eyes just to waste his time, but when I finally do turn around he's still smiling and holding a handful of papers out to me, no sweat.
Ok, whatever, I guess. I swipe the papers out of his hand too hard and start reading.
REFERENCE
Written by Sharon Marsh (Tom's Rhinoplasty, LLC) by request of Leopold Stotch
... Why is he giving me this, again? I don't need to see all the glowing praise that Stan's mom typed up doubtlessly in the stead of some lazy-ass doctor, it's not like I don't know that he's just so fucking flawless, and wait, Tom's Rhinoplasty?
"When did you work at Tom's?" I ask, then immediately follow up with "And what the hell good is this supposed to do me?"
Butters looks confused at having to process two questions at once. Or maybe I'm just trying to make him seem dumber than he is. "It was my job during senior year. I wasn't a doctor or anything," he says humbly, scuffing a shoe on the ground like some goddamn nineteenth-century sweetheart. "I just managed a couple of office chores. Well, you did."
Maybe he is actually that stupid. "No, I didn't," I say clearly, frowning with incredulity ‘cause what the fuck is he talking about.
"Yes, you did. All you have to do is take those and change the names to yours, and then submit them with your application. I think," he adds, which is awful comforting. Squinting at the papers again, I can already see how simple it would be just to white over his name and forge Stan's mom's handwriting into my own name. And with such rave reviews, who could deny me? But still, something just smells about the whole thing.
"Aren't you job-hunting too?" I ask suspiciously, narrowing my eyes at him.
He stays still for a beat, then nods slowly as if I'm the one who's acting weird. "I guess I sure am. What's the matter, though?"
"Don't you need these?" Clearly, one of us has missed an important point of this line of discussion, and I doubt it was me.
Butters shrugs, turning for the door. He's too slow for me not to catch the smile on his face and too much of a pussy for me not to see the pain behind it. "Yeah, but I think you could use them more than I can right now. That's just what friends do," he says almost tenderly over his shoulder. "Good luck tonight."
And then I'm alone, holding someone else's invaluable praise. Tom's Rhinoplasty has a major stick up their ass about hiring, everyone knows that. They pay well and offer ‘good' work, whatever that is. It's one of the best places in this shithole town to work, and a quick Google search could tell any potential employers just how prestigious (relatively) a high-school job there is.
So why can't I stash them in my clutch? It's right there, sitting on the sink counter, but my fucking arms won't work, like I stuck my finger in an outlet or something. I figure, okay, I'll just go over there and drop them on top and put them in there later, but then my legs won't move and something inside of me is sinking, because this is wrong and I know it.
My stupid traitor body doesn't have any problems putting them right back where they came from and hightailing it out of that bathroom, though.
Eric Cartman messaged Liane Cartman.
hey mom, can you bring home some of those salt and vinegar wings from price chopper?
Liane Cartman messaged you!
Sorry hon but Im nowhere near Colfax today
Too bad you cant drive!!
Eric Cartman messaged Liane Cartman.
they're just at price chopper tho! it's like five minutes off the road!
Liane Cartman messaged you!
Snookums mommy isnt coming home for a while. This is why I signed you up for drivers ed.
Im sorry I cant help you more. Maybe some other time.
Love you
Eric Cartman messaged Liane Cartman.
weak. ;(
At the same time, though, maybe it would be positive for me to actually get up and do something. And maybe in some forgotten universe Panic! At The Disco is any good.
Yeah, fuck it.
But still, you know that really stupid sort of hunger where your stomach will accept no substitutes, it really wants (x) and if it doesn't get (x) you'll walk around feeling vaguely unhappy and unsatisfied for the rest of the day? Because that's the way I feel about salt and vinegar wings right now. Salt and vinegar wings and I are meant to be together forever and ever, and I pine away day after day waiting for a box of salt and vinegar wings to come and whisk me away from this mediocre life of harlotry and sin. In fact, I'm swooning just thinking about it, or maybe that's just because I'm hungry as shit.
So there I am, in the kitchen, doing my best to remember how to fry chicken.
And, okay, I've neglected to mention something over the course of my narrative. I'm not an absolute fucking failure at life, which I should think was kind of obvious, and if you needed to hear that then fuck off, but there is something that I'm actually good at that's, you know, more of a useful skill than deepthroating. I'm a goddamn good cook; I mean, I did start a restaurant when I was ten and saw as much traffic as a McDonald's at a cardboard stand, but after that people stopped really paying attention to anything I made because it probably either had laxatives in it or was just plain tainted. And I'm not going to deny my own past, because both of those things were really, really funny, but I can't help but feel a little bit bitter that one of the most upstanding things I actually enjoy doing is looked upon as being just as bad as my other various vices. I promise those burgers were good for other reasons, too, which is pretty impressive considering I was fucking ten years old at the time, and since then I've been making cupcakes and pizzas and all that good shit whenever Mom was too ‘busy' to cook, which has become more and more of a necessity even if I don't really feel like it half the time.
So I guess if people don't want fresh homemade crème caramel and buffalo burgers, that's their choice, but assholes shouldn't be able to bitch at me for overeating my own damn tasty food, that's all I'm saying.
Our house is pimping in the Martha Stewart Home and Garden variety of extravagantly specified cooking tool regard, so I can more or less make anything I want to, whenever I want to. Which I've ended up doing a couple times while high as fuck and watching the Food Network- shit's, like, stomach porn for food lovers (except not in the sense that Stan's creepy-ass father thought it was, Christ.) But it's actually surprising how little special preparation it actually takes to make fried chicken wings, and the most specialized part of it is the assorted bag of chicken parts in our freezer, long-forgotten. So I go a little overboard, and I end up making the salt and vinegar part of it into a sauce and drizzling it all over a couple of wings and adding one of those faggy little parsley garnishes until my lunch is just picture goddamn perfect and my gut is about ready to form a rebellion.
But it's so fucking worth it, seriously. No idea what the supermarkets put on their wings, but it isn't even close to this real salt and vinegar. It seems like the more effort you put into something the less of an output you have, and it's gone way too soon, but I'm about a million times more satisfied than I think I would be if I'd made just an enormous bowl of cereal or something, so I let it go.
Staring at the crumbs on my plate, it occurs to me that it would be pretty goddamn rad if I had someone to share this with. I mean, even Kyle, so I could rub it in his face that I'm better at shit than he thinks I am. It's not a nice feeling, isn't one of those warm fuzzy moments. It's actually a pretty big downer.
If someone would just fucking listen to me and maybe, just consider, just try to find it in their hearts to give me another chance, even a little one, I could kick total ass. If I could just find somewhere, anywhere, to sell something that I, myself, Eric Cartman, made (wow, just imagine!) I'm pretty sure I could work my way into the hearts and stomachs of the general public one way or another. Half the reason I wanted to work at Harbucks was so I could make some pastries that were better than the rocks they pass off as edible, try and start a chain reaction, because everyone's gotta start somewhere and oftentimes that somewhere is under the table, like it or not. But either I really am surrounded by total assholes, or I guess I used up all my chances and this is all my fault.
Wait, fuck, what am I thinking?
No, not what am I thinking. Who am I thinking like, and why is this becoming a recurring problem of mine since he came back.
I groan and faceplant into my plateful of chicken grease.
At least part of the reason why I immediately forget that I was going to try to break off all contact with Butters in an effort to keep my balls intact as soon as I see him is the fact that he's so goddamn consistent. He's as deep in the shit as I am, not to mention I'm pretty sure I've successfully converted him into a grade-A stoner, but he just keeps on with that retarded smile and his almost artificially sunshiny attitude, even when we're both smoking ourselves into an early grave after a long night with shitty customers.
I skulk into the back room with my little baggy full of grass before the door shuts after his last customer, and he's sprawled luxuriously over the couch, his slight frame making it look much bigger than it is, at least when I'm sitting on it. And god damn, has it changed in here; he's cleaned up all the trash, changed the bulbs to warm orange ones, scrubbed the walls of god knows what, probably over the course of several nights, and I only just noticed now. With the slight haze of smoke that always seems to hang in the air here, he conjures up images of a flapper in her own little world of silk and beads, broken by the world but still vulnerable and delicately open.
"How's it going," I grunt, not really wanting to hear an answer, collapsing on the couch next to him and setting to work with my rolling paper.
"I'm okay." Butters smiles wearily, not seeming to care that he's still ruffled from that last john, but you can tell that he's tired. He gets more tired every time I see him at the end of the night, and I guess the pot probably isn't a huge help, but I can relate to the urge to get to a place where things matter to you about as much as they do to the guy in Bohemian Rhapsody.
And yeah, I guess I care that he's this beat, if only because I want a good competition.
"That's it for week three," I mutter, and wow, is it really? Because the last two weeks have been nothing. Just... nothing. The most exciting thing that happened was me killing Paarthurnax to join the Blades, and that was just because it was the first time I actually felt like an enormous prick in a video game, plus now I have no idea where the rest of the Word Walls are and the asshole Graybeards won't talk to me. Other than that, my days have consisted of playing video games, seeing my mom for maybe half an hour total, doing a thousand things with a million faceless desperates, and getting wasted with Butters (or Marjorine, as I'm apparently supposed to call him around others) to cap my days off.
"Oh," Butters says mildly, watching my clumsy rolling. After a pause he starts, "Do you want to talk about profits now, or...?"
"I don't really give a fuck anymore, Butters, okay? You win. Congratulations, you're the crossdressing blowjob queen. Go ahead and chase me off the property with pitchforks," I practically spit, and instantly feel like the biggest fucking idiot the world has ever seen for actually saying it. But oh well, I can't take it back now, so I avoid lifting my head at all costs, but I can tell he's doing that laser stare again, the one he always does because I don't know, he has to think about every last thing he says to me, I guess.
"I don't know what you were going to do if you won, but I never thought you should leave, Eric," he affirms softly, after one of the most uncomfortable silences I've ever known. "You were here first, and all. Besides, I'd be real lonely if you left. I just suggested it because I didn't want to fight over it is all."
And right then something breaks. I look down at my half-finished joint, and I tell myself it isn't worth it, that I don't care, for the umpteenth time, but suddenly I can't fucking keep my mouth shut any longer. "Then why the hell did you go along with it?!" I burst, carelessly snapping around and sending too much of my eightball flying out of its baggie just to give him a piece of my goddamn mind. "Did you think it was funny to rub in how much better you are than me? Did you think it would make your life that much better?! Because I could have told you it wouldn't. It won't fix a thing, because so what if you're so goddamn good at whoring, at least I can cook even if there's no way I'll ever own a restaurant. What the fuck can you do? It won't fix a fucking thing, and you probably can't do a fucking thing either, Butters, because you're just as much of a hot fucking mess as I am."
My teeth click like rocks as I snap my mouth shut, that's how fast it all goes quiet.
His throat bobs as he swallows wetly, his eyes wide and impossibly blue, bluer than even Kenny's, fake fucking blue that I just want to pluck out and pop. Butters licks his mauve lips and gulps again, bats false eyelashes in a rapid blink, and finally says tentatively, "Did you ever consider maybe letting them actually, you know, have their way with you?"
A burst of bitter laughter rips its way out of my chest. I can't believe that's all he got from that. "Is that how you made so much money? That's fucking gay, Butters."
That changes his mood so fast I swear it gets colder. "So what?" Butters counters flatly, and for the first time in the past three weeks he looks like he's fed up with me. "I'm just a little bit braver than you about it, I guess."
I glare at him and finally growl, "Why the fuck did you run away from your perfect fucking life?"
"Because it wasn't perfect. Because my parents thought I needed fixing. Because one day I decided I didn't want to wake up, walk downstairs, and have the first thing I heard be a suggestion to go get tested for AIDS I knew I didn't have because until I came here I couldn't have. But I did it, all of it, and maybe that makes me less of a hot mess than you." Butters returns my stare, and he doesn't look angry, or scared. He looks exactly the same as he always does at times like these and it makes my skin crawl.
But wouldn't you know it, all it takes to break his little façade is me snapping out with both hands and grabbing his head, and bang, he's fucking terrified and I'm fucking pissed. I'm in his face, with my best, most real scowl, close enough to take a bite right out of this little fucker's neck, and he's too scared to even try and pull back because I am a fucking god and I'm done with his bullshit.
"And that was all you were hiding?" I murmur in the darkest tones I think I've ever heard out of my own chest. "That's all you were fucking dancing around for three weeks? Because let me tell you something, Butters, I was smart once, smarter than you'll ever be. I could have done anything without even having to work for it and crushed a thousand lives without a second thought. But I fucked up, I got drunk once and started chasing feelings I didn't know I could have. And everyone graduates, and I'm passed out in my house; and Stan and Kyle go out to party, and I end up losing my virginity to a guy who'd kill me as soon as look at me; and everyone goes to college, and I have to suck dick just to pull my own fucking weight. Because my mom is just as useless as I am, and I have to spend all my money on video games and cigarettes and pot and booze just to feel okay, and what's left of it goes to getting my ass out here because I'm too much of a pussy to drive, getting paid less than I could easily be making by guys who I won't let fuck me because it sounds like torture and I'm terrified. And I can't get a job and I can't fucking fix it no matter what I do because I'm too fucking lazy and too fucking scared and too fucking fucked. I'm every don't-do-drugs propaganda poster boy you've ever seen in your life and I don't even care. You feel pretty good about yourself now, don't you?" I lean in close enough so that my eyelashes touch his forehead and he gasps almost imperceptibly, shaking in my grasp, pupils little more than pinpricks.
"You don't know a goddamn thing about my life, Butters," I growl. "So just shut your fucking mouth."
And, before either of us, I think, can really grasp what's going on, I'm kissing him, and it isn't like any movie that I've ever seen, at least. I've got an iron grip on him, and I'm basically just fucking up his shit with my face, because this isn't any sort of affection, because here in this moment I hate Butters Stotch with everything I am and there's no way to express that with words. I'm practically biting at his lips, he's not even moving a muscle, there's this weird growling coming from my chest, it feels like there's a monster in there, I have to make him understand-
Butters makes the smallest, most broken whimper against me, and then falls silent again.
Just like that, I snap away from him and everything just stops. I'm staring at him, and he's looking back at me, still but vibrating, searching for something he won't find, and his face just crumples and I stop seeing him.
I'm on my feet, hurriedly gathering what's salvageable of my possessions, trying to get my ass out as desperately as if the room is caving in. I canter over the doorframe, forcing myself not to just flat-out run for it, and I'm about to slam it behind myself when Butters half-whispers, in a paper-thin voice, not as if it's an insult, but just as fact: "Eric Cartman, you're a heartless bastard."
And all the way out through the emptying bar and into the night and while I'm walking to the curb and while I'm waiting for a taxi and I'm clawing at my scalp and trying to stop existing all I can say is just a million whispered repetitions of the hallowed two word mantra, "I know."
I don't know whether he tries to avoid me the next day, because I'm doing an excellent job of doing just that to him. All I know is, he hooks a big guy in a slick suit, and sneaks off backstage, and five minutes later he comes out looking slightly disheveled and just as upset as he did the day he showed up. The next day, he doesn't come back. Nor the day after that.
The worst part of it all is, I don't know how to feel about it. I mean, obviously I should be thankful, right? I mean, hell, I could just up and throw a fucking party here, but at the same time would it be worth the effort if the only person who would come isn't dicking around and garnering all my goddamn money anymore, irritating as he was? I guess I didn't realize how antisocial I was really getting.
After a long stretch of wrestling with myself, I decide that it was just really goddamn great to have a mindless little robot following my every move again, and that's all I'm missing. Never mind that it was getting pretty fucking frustrating that he was practically throwing money and aid at me, even in his decidedly tight circumstances, and I could never seem to get my shit together and just bleed him for all he had. It was still nice to have someone to go order more pina coladas while I'm hitting the next plateau of brainlessness.
But Butters was obviously way the hell more fucking trouble than he was worth, right? Just think about it for a second, he must have had some secret scheming way to get in my head and make me feel dependent on him or something, or else I wouldn't be thinking about this so hard. Asshole's smarter than he acts. Was smarter. Acted. I should have just eaten his face off when I had the chance and left it at that. See how well that fit into his little plan, then I wouldn't have had a single goddamn reason to keep turning the last three weeks over in my mind like a worry stone and wondering against my will why and when the hell I went so fucking batshit, even by my standards.
So I'm just polluting my way into a deep, dark mental hole where the Benedict Arnolds of thoughts aren't a thing that can happen, when all of a sudden someone screeches in this really high-pitched voice, "Oh, look, there he is!" This bitch in a tight-fitting sweater flounces over to me, tries and fails not to let out a sharp giggle, and whoa, holy hell, I've never been so glad to see Bebe Stevens in my entire life.
"Do I know you?" I play it cool, crossing my legs in that self-sacrificing way I eventually built up the endurance to do and letting my voice slip into silkier tones.
Bebe looks actually hurt, crossing her arms and pouting petulantly, big glossy lips displaced miles out of where they should be. "Caaaartsy, it's me, Bebe! Remember, you used to invite me over to your house and we'd play, uh, Sheep? And it was really all because of my titties the whole time! Don't you even remember them, at least?" And just like that she squishes her fingers over her chest unabashedly, and god damn, boobs. Maybe I don't do the whole girl thing, but boobies are still a pretty okay thing in my books.
"Bay-bee, you're drunk. Leave Cartman alone, you don't wanna smudge your makeup. Or his." Okay, maybe my dealer fucked with my weed or something and the last three days are just some crazy angel dust hallucination, because there's no way that Wendy comes stumbling up behind Bebe on huge wedge heels, collapsing over her shoulders like girls do and giggling madly.
"Nu-unh, I told you not to say my name like that," Bebe humphs, rumpling her eyebrows and batting her eyelashes in a way that's probably quite alluring to those who are not aware of the cold black hearts that lurk within those of her gender.
"It wasn't your name, though. I was calling you baby, baaaaby," Wendy teases in a slur, flicking her sheaf of long black hair around her shoulders and folding down into the seat behind Bebe. "Caaall me maybe, heh..."
Jesus, the people that buy fake IDs these days. "Uh, so, is there anything I can help you guys with?" I ask, lifting an eyebrow, but I can't tell whether I'm trying to be unimpressed or confused, because I'm too confused. Wait, I guess I'm confused, then. Shit, what?
"Don't be such a goose, Cartsy!" Bebe titters. Her and Wendy exchange a secret girl look, and suddenly I have a really nasty feeling about what this arrangement could possibly mean for me. "We know why you're here," she stage-whispers, doing her best to look sly but really just looking like a drunk chick trying to do just that, which I guess is what she is.
"I see." I prop my elbow on the bar and lean my chin against my hand. "You're saying you've discerned why I'm in a bar full of disgruntled men, dressed up like a teenage girl, wearing makeup and talking in a falsetto? Please, tell me more."
"You're a prostitute!" Wendy blurts, like she just figured it out now (which, I don't know, maybe she did? Maybe Bebe didn't even tell her about this before dragging her along? I just don't know.) She's got her chin on Bebe's shoulder, where the tight red weave is probably going to leave icky marks all over her neck, and together they look like they might have a combined IQ of 50, which is kind of a big deal seeing as Wendy started college two years early or some shit and Bebe's looking to be a doctor, but it's just such an anomaly in my life to be face-to-face with some actual real females of my age group that I can balance it out and pretend that they're worth the while.
"And I don't imagine you're in the market for a blowjob, so why is all of this important to you?" I prompt the two-headed girl monster.
"We came looking for some help!" Bebe stares at me like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
"Help? What kind of help?" I consider the evidence and then actually blush for the first time in forever. "Shit, are you guys in lesbians or something? Look, seriously, not all same-sex bullshit is the same. I would have thought you'd at least know that much."
Wendy makes a face at the precise instant that Bebe squeals, "Ew! Yucky! No way!" Then her face goes all shadowy, and the next thing I know she's off her seat, in my lap, and stuffing her tongue into my mouth, prompting Wendy to make a weird whistling noise that might have been a catcall at some point. She tastes like girl drinks, all sugar and Bailey's Irish Crème, but to be honest that's about all I can really gather, because what the fuck is going on?
She finally draws back and grins from underneath her cascade of blonde doll ringlets and I gasp, "Oh."
"We wanted to see what you knew about threesomes," Bebe says breathily, her hair framing one hazel eye, gathering herself up so her shoulders are around her face and she looks something like a tiger, an image which is somewhat aided by the fact that she has both of her talon-nailed hands folded firmly, catlike, right over my crotch.
Something tells me this might actually be a really bad position to bargain from.
"Me?" I finally manage to squeak, because I wouldn't have exactly pictured myself as the first person to end up covered in bitches as overall fine as these, especially in this outfit.
"Why do you think we're this drunk?" Wendy mutters, in a moment of obscene clarity, before falling forward around Bebe's shoulders and giving me that same sultry smile, which is actually on the verge of terrifying for her because she's practically monochromatic, dark hair and eyes and perfect pale skin. "So whaddaya say, Cartman? Just like old times? We're willing to paaay," she dangles.
And, you know, this is the part where I should be the one who's jumping down their throats, but I just have this really awful feeling and I'm not sure why and it sucks. A clusterfuck of excuses pops up in my head, but considering the target audience (read: girls, reputed for their emotional acuity) I tone it down to the more believable, earnest ones. I'm not really into girls? True, but that shouldn't be a concern of mine, with the price what it is. I'm taking the night off? I don't think they're drunk enough not to notice the zebra-print skirt, thanks.
I toss out one more excuse and my brain latches onto it hard, making it super-descriptive in the blink of an eye, screaming that it's perfect and honest and not even a lie, and I don't even know why because it so totally is, a lie I mean:
I might care about someone we mutually know more than I'm willing to admit and you're making me really uncomfortable because you're reminding me of school, which reminds me of him, and this isn't what I want, goddamn it.
See?
Where the fuck did that load of bullshit even come from?
I swallow, hard, and wonder why I was ever considering turning down a healthy sum of money and a romp with two lovely ladies such as these. I wrap my arm around Bebe's waist, tilt up Wendy's face with my other hand so I can pull the same thing on her that Bebe just did to me, and eventually end up with my face nestled between the two of them, whispering in a way hotter version of Bebe's own drunken mumbles, "For you two? Anything." And then I say, "Five hundred."
Fun fact: I have dreams that would make that sick fuck from the Human Centipede run for his mommy.
After I stagger home five hundred bucks richer (couldn't Wendy have spent that on a textbook or whatever college kids buy? Jesus) and fall into bed, I'm kinda happy for the reprieve, I mean, Wendy's a tight-ass little bitch but Bebe's definitely no slump. So I just totally pass out without even saying hi to my cat, and bam, there I am in dreamland, surrounded by your average array of studies in body horror, operating-room fuck-ups, all that fun stuff.
I'm not totally heartless. This shit used to scare the living daylights out of me when I was... maybe seven? But when you think about it, it's kind of cool. I'm not hurting anyone. What I can do here would land me in jail for the rest of my foreseeable existence in reality, and that's just the possible stuff. The impossible stuff would probably make me as much of a creative genius as Dali if anyone other than me seemed to be able to stomach it. Pro tip: don't try to tell Kyle's family about the dream you had last night about ripping open people's heads and forcing porcupines into their skulls until their brains poured out their nostrils. You won't get to finish dinner, even if it is shitty Jew food.
For one of my dreams, this one's relatively tame, flickering through a hundred scenes of mass genocide and alien parasites before finally dropping me on a pile of squishy corpses. Directly in front of me looms a brick wall that stretches up forever into a blood-red sky, thousands of other bodies chained up on it, but right in the middle of it all one's still moving.
And I just have to look at this one poor bastard to know that I hate him. I hate him and he's the root of all evil, or at least everything less than ideal that's happened to me, and I can't see his face or hear a word he's saying over the persistent, sourceless sound of screaming, but it doesn't matter, because he's guilty. I charge down my pile of bodies with a harpy screech, a rusty pair of scissors showing up out of nowhere in my hands, and basically just have a jousting match with his stomach.
I'm totally fucking up his shit, just going medieval all over the place, punishing him for all the times he's screwed up my plans because I just know it's his fault, and I should be loving every minute of this, this is how I blow off the worst kind of steam... so why am I just feeling worse and worse? It's just like with Bebe and Wendy: instead of filling in the empty feeling in my middle, it's almost like it's making it worse. Please don't tell me I caught the conscience.
I'm halfheartedly jamming half of this guy's femur into his ribcage and he just won't die, won't bleed, won't even scream, and finally I look up and all I see is blue before the dream shifts again.
I'm nine. I'm nine years old, I hate my friends and I don't fit myself right yet, but I don't give a fuck right now because I'm riding high. I'm the king of the goddamn world, because I am god in this little town, I literally just got away with murder and everyone knows for certain I am not to be fucked with. Scratch that, I'm the king of the goddamn universe. Eric the Awesome and Cool- yeah, I like the ring of that.
The paramedics just came in their little white ambulance with a blanket and a couple of needles. The blanket they wrapped around Scott Tenorman's shoulders, and when he couldn't move without bursting into a fresh round of tears they pricked him with one of the needles until he went all blank-faced and floppy. There's a half-empty bowl of chili in the middle of an empty fairground, I'm standing on top of the table where I triumphed over immense adversity at last, my mouth tastes like tears, and I'm singing at the top of my lungs, having my own private victory concert.
"YEAAAAAH, SO WHAT? I'M STILL A ROCK STAH, I GOT MAH ROCK MOVES, AND I DON'T NEEEED, YOUUUU--"
I'm totally twirling my jacket around my head and gyrating like a stupid spoiled whore and busting out some moves that definitely have nothing to do with my future career. I'm not even being ironic about this, I just feel so goddamn fabulous. And yeah, it's manly as fuck, which is why I wouldn't be doing it if I wasn't sure there was no one around for miles.
"Eric, isn't this, maybe, makin' a mountain outta- out of a- a molehill?" I make a totally normal sound and practically fall off my table, spinning around with my gathered momentum as soon as I regain my balance. And, of course, there's Butters, his blonde tuft still too short and his speech still stumbling, knocking his hands together and, in all likelihood, getting off on me being a total dancing pro, the creepy bastard.
"What! How the hell long have you been there, Butters! Everyone else went home already!" I bark in my nine-year-old rasp, pointing a stubby finger at him accusingly and hoping he doesn't notice the fact that I'm blushing my fucking face off.
Butters flinches but stands his ground. "I promise I wasn't tryin' to watch you or nothing! I just wanted to make sure you got home alright, I guess?" He scuffs a shoe in the dirty, patchy fairground grass, kicking at one of the empty chili bowls I blew away months of allowance on because this thing had to be more than just a little picnic for it to work.
I glare at him indignantly. "Butters, you know as well as I do that neither of us give one solitary fuck about the other." Which... is kind of hypocritical for me to say, because I'm the one who knows it isn't true, like, at all?
"Well, no, not really," Butters confesses, eyes flickering to his shoes almost in apology. "Look, I kinda-sorta wanted to talk to ya, Eric, if it's okay..." he continues in a way that makes me think for a second that I might not have a choice in the matter, but that's bullshit.
Sighing dramatically, I gather up my jacket and make a big show of pulling it back on. "What's there to talk about? I'm a winner and Scott Tenuhman is just a big fat pussy. Case closed."
"What you did was bad and you know it," Butters blurts in a sudden burst of clarity, then immediately looks regretful and resumes his staredown with the ground. Dude, like, what is he talking about, again? Fuck that shit. I hop down from my table, grunt with effort, and stomp over to him, folding my arms and taking an irritated posture.
"No, Butters," I say clearly, tapping him in the forehead for emphasis, which he squints uncomfortably at but doesn't dare to move away from. "It was super-kyew, and you're just lucky I invited you so you could watch."
"Eric, I'm sorry, but I just don't see how killin' a kid's parents an' feedin' them to him is all that cool!" he insists, finally shifting a bit away from my hand.
Okay, seriously? Talk about your ungrateful bastards. "Not kyew? Not kyew? I totally just kicked Tenuhman's ass, and you're saying that's not kyew? Okay, Butters, are you being seriously with me right now? Because if you are it's obvious you have some very deep-seated issues. I mean, duh, he scammed me out of my money! Real hard-earned money, Butters! I'd say he deserved whatever he got! Wouldn't you?" I give him a pointed look at that last bit.
Butters almost looks shocked, working his mouth like a dying fish for a second or two before finally saying incredulously, "Over fifteen dollars?"
"Oh my god, you assholes never listen! It wasn't fifteen, it was sixteen and change, Jesus Christ!" I yelp in frustration, throwing my hands in the air before balling them at my sides and shifting into a more aggressive stance. "Now am I right or not, Butters?!"
Baby blue eyes flick over me, and Butters toys with the buttonhole on one sleeve of his stupid little dress shirt and looks away, eyes hooded in nervousness. And it's like a punch right in my little nine-year-old heart, because he looks cute as fuck right now, and I kind of just want to hug him a little or maybe a lot and apologize for yelling, but that's a stupid faggy thought and why is that in my head? Finally, he looks up, and says quietly, "You're ruh-... right. Sorry. Go back to dancin' or whatever you like, I can get out all by myself." And then he turns on his heels and walks away.
But wouldn't you know it, I'm still standing there like I stepped in glue long after he's out of sight, an incredibly stupid look on my face because I can't seem to move. Because the look on his face, it just fucking hurts.
Flash and I'm at a different post-concert, one where I'm on an actual stage, and now I'm facedown on the stage in my best suit and crying my goddamn eyes out. And Butters is the one towering over me now, as he shows me his middle finger and emphatically states, "Fuck you, Eric."
Flash and I'm curled up in a little ball, clinging to the striped tail of my Coon costume, facing the wall of a cell I made for my enemies and am instead trapped in with a bucket of shit and the captured Professor Chaos, who's currently just finished listening to me bitch about how this is the least fair thing that's ever happened to anyone, how I had the Dark Lord at my command and the hippies on the brink of extinction and I lost it all, and he's just slowly shaking his head.
Flash through every time I failed or succeeded and how, no matter what, Butters would always seem to be there, always making that goddamn face. If he looked devastated or angry then maybe I could take it, take the fact that I was to blame for that, that I made him feel just like everyone else, but no, he always had to just look... disappointed. And it changed a little, maybe a little more horrified or a little more frustrated, but he always had these soft eyebrows and this little pout and the whole thing said, I thought you were better than this.
Let me tell you, I wouldn't have cared if anyone else thought there was good in me. But I did when it was him, because he believed it with all of his heart, and I did care, and I wished there was something to be proud of inside of me.
Because maybe, back then, I didn't hate him as much as I claimed.
Because maybe, I don't now, either.
Because maybe, I've kind of on some level unwillingly been in love with Leopold aka Butters fucking Stotch for the better part of a decade, and I'm the one I hate.
Which might explain why I wake up from the most non-threatening dream I've had since I can remember and discover I'm already sobbing.
Kyle Broflovski commented on Stan Marsh's Wall.
you know back when i was first figuring myself out i kind of didnt get the whole social stigma for cock on cock action, so i basically just kind of ran up to my mom and went 'hey mom! i think i really like stan!' then she went all 'ok kyle i have had it up to here with your bullshit, go to your room.' so then i got grounded because of you you bastard and the point still didnt get across. thank god. <3
Stan Marsh replied:
Uh thats one way to say happy anniversary I guess. <3
Eric Cartman replied:
god fucking damn it, you guys. i'm seriously going to beat the shit out of both of you. :l
Kyle Broflovski replied:
hey douchebag its our anniversary not your pity party day. dont like it then you shouldnt have friended us
Stan Marsh replied:
^^^^^
Eric Cartman replied:
i can't even handle how dumb you are.
Kenny McCormick replied:
Congrats, you guys. I'm glad you're happy even if I don't get it. And by the way, /someone's/ not taking being forever alone too well.
Eric Cartman replied:
;/ oh my god that is not even the point like at all, the idiot pile climbs higher.
Eric Cartman replied:
and fuck you, i'm getting laid like nightly. bet you can't say the same, you pompous kept-man bastard.
Stan Marsh replied:
Wow you guys thanks for ruining it.
Butters Stotch replied:
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!!!! :)
Eric Cartman replied:
oh, motherfuck it.
Kenny McCormick replied:
Brb, dying.
Kenny McCormick replied:
Wait, I meant, dying as in dying of laughter, not like. Actual dying. You guys know what I meant.
My phone is just sitting on my bed, blaring meaningless Facebook conversations into nowhere. I guess if I'm going to wallow around in my own retardation, giving me access to a place where I can share it with the whole goddamn town probably isn't the best idea.
Today's schedule is shaping up to consist of the following: not leaving my room, except for leaving my room only to raid Mom's vodka stash, getting high as fuck, angrily fucking my pillow, and not being able to put myself at a safe distance away from crying my goddamn eyes out for more than an hour at most.
It's not like I've never had a day like this before. They happen every couple of months, when I just wake up and suddenly my eyes turn traitor. Yeah, that probably means my lifestyle is something less than ideal. No fucking way, who would have thought?
But this is the first time that I've actually really hardcore felt as bad as I look.
You know, it's my fault that Stan and Kyle are such happy little homosexuals together, too. I thought I could really fuck them up by giving Kyle a sharp shove right out of the closet, which was more likely than not me trying to put a damper on his mad persistent crush on his best friend so I could move in on him. Instead it turns out that Stan had his tendencies, too; meanwhile I successfully rendered myself the one awkwardly single friend, eventually evolving to the one awkwardly overall terrible not-friend.
How come every time I try to take control of my life I just make it worse?
Once, I bite down so hard on my fucking pillow that I actually rip the fucking fabric and I get fucking feathers all over my fucking room. Fraulein scoots out from under the bed, where I didn't actually know she was skulking for the past five hours but maybe she came in while I was staring at the ceiling and trying to regain my shit after a particularly manly bawl session or something; anyway, she pounces on them excitedly, and meanwhile there I am, slumped over an extremely violated pillow destined to never be used for resting one's head upon again, panting and gagging on my own emotions.
Tell me how fair this is: I can't get control over my feelings, but I can't even begin to identify them, either.
"Oh my god, Frau," I hear myself mumbling, "what am I doing?"
"Neh?" mews Fraulein, cocking her head and letting a white feather dangle out of her mouth.
I snap her up in my arms and bury my face in her back, because the only set of shoulders I have to cry on belongs to a confused tabby cat. Frau dangles out of my grasp, patiently letting me gasp out dry hacking faggy sobs into her fur, eventually wiggling in discomfort at her awkward position.
Turns out Fraulein doesn't really think whiskey is an acceptable apology for using her as a handkerchief and I just ended up wasting the last of my bottle pouring it out on the carpet like an asshole for her, but I can't seem to locate a fuck to give anymore. Nothing is lining up right. I'd like to say that that dream was just a stupid mishmash of memories, no big deal, but clearly it fucked me up to the point where I can't even put together a logical chain of thought. I mean, among other things, but there's always something that pushes you over the edge, and this time it was a million frowny frustratingly perfect Butterses.
If most days form a timeline, this day is the angry scribblings of a frustrated kindergartener.
I drift off with my head lolling against the wall and wake up to the sound of Just Dance with a major cramp in my neck.
Groaning, I find my feet, carefully keeping my head at its awkward angle because I already hurt enough without my neck starting in, too, and fumble for my phone on the bed. "Hello?" I gargle in my swamp-monster voice.
"Snookums, where are you?" Of course it's Mom, her voice like audible rainbows. Rainbows with diabetes.
"Why are you asking me that? You haven't been here in five days and I just drank all your booze." Yeah, my mom probably isn't about to freak out over that, but usually I wouldn't just drop that tidbit of information, proving how far gone my judgment is at this point.
"Oh, I was just hoping that maybe you'd found a job," Mom says wistfully. She's getting more and more passive-aggressive with every passing week, and I don't really think she has a right to talk, considering that her idea of ‘tame' is pissing in a cup and making her customers drink it. Not to mention half the time they aren't customers since she isn't even doing it for the money. "Also, do you think you could pick up some groceries? The list is on the fridge. Now, the strawberry-flavored lube you can-"
"I know where to buy lube, Mom." Things you should not say to your mother: brought to you by a drunk, sexually confused twenty-year-old. Sponsored by Pabst Blue Ribbon.
"My little sweetiekins is growing up." No fucking shit, she actually says that. "Oh, and Eric, have you talked to your little friend Butters in the past couple of days? I heard something happened to him, and I'd ask Linda but- oh, him being a runaway and all, it's just too embarrassing."
On some level I can feel my forehead wrinkling into something between a scowl and a pained grimace. Yeah, something happened to him, he got his shit molested by a dude in a dress. I should be pissed off that he actually told anyone, but instead I kind of feel like I actually... well, deserve it. A little. That doesn't mean I have to tell anyone about my fuckups, however.
"Yeah," I mumble into my phone, sounding like I'm a million miles away even to myself. "He died." And then I hang up.
What day is it? Is it tomorrow? I think it might be. I don't know, I'm not being a depressed piece of shit anymore, though. No, I feel goooood. I'm a fucking winner. I'm not sure where all the money I swear I just made went, or where the hell I'm going to put all these empty Jack Daniels, but it doesn't matter anymore. Butters doesn't matter. Butters is dead. Who's Butters? What a stupid name. Must belong to a stupid asshole who only even stupider assholes could ever care about.
Wait, where is this? What did the bus driver just say? Oh, fuck, who cares. Everything happens for a reason, right? Whoa, I guess I'm over here now. I squint at the house number, which doesn't seem to want to cooperate, reading-wise. It's, like, 2001 or something, which is stupid, because that was like ten or twenty years ago or something. Stupid.
I ring the doorbell and lean against the railway of the stairs, but then the railway is actually a bush and it's actually on the other side and I almost fall into the hedgerow. Which is funny.
Someone groans unhappily from inside, someone reassures "Hold on, I'll get it." The door swings wide, and hey, look at that, it's my best fucking friend in the whole fucking world! Fucking sweet, dude.
Kyle pushes his way through the doorframe, a loose, easy smile lighting up his green eyes with a different sort of fire than usual. "Let's make this quick, I'm in the middle of-" he starts in a joking tone, but then he actually bothers to look at me, his eyebrows slowly sinking and growing closer together. "Cartman," he finally greets stiffly, folding his arms across his chest and purposefully looking away.
"Hey, Kyyyyle!" I say happily, considering and halfway getting around to hugging him but instead falling into an awkward sort of wave. "Looking sexy!"
Wait, I thought this was Stan's house, though. No. Wait. What?
His goofy spotty Jew nose wrinkles, like, he's smelling something bad, but he's not a dog, Kyle's silly. "Christ. Cartman, you're drunk. It's ten at night. I hate you. Go home." That's our Kyle, always joking around.
"Come on, Kyle, let me innnnn," I wheedle, putting on my best pleading expression. Kyle lets out a long sigh, looks like he's considering.
"Hmm... nope, I don't think you live here. Sorry." His hand runs along his neckline, fiddling with the auburn curls that hang around his face like he always does when he's even remotely nervous without his stupid hat on, and suddenly I see the starts of some very familiar angry reddish marks along his collarbones. Equally suddenly I know who the other person in there is. Goddamn it.
No, but I'm a nice guy, though. I feel good and stuff. "Come on, Kyle, you and Stan can make out or whatever you were doing, I won't get mad, promise!" I lift one of my pinkies, because pinky swears are cool.
Kyle flushes, but steels himself just as quickly and returns flatly, "Knowing you? Yes, actually, you will." He's edging back into the doorway now, like he's looking for an escape route in case things turn ugly which they won't, if he'll just cooperate with me.
Wow, though, what a fucking asshole. We know he's into me, right? He just doesn't want to admit it. "Riiiight, okay. But, you know what, Kyle? That's only because YOU'RE IGNORING ME!" I stomp my foot into the concrete angrily and hear a snap. But I'm wearing my sneakers, right? No, wait, the bright pink Barbie heels. That would explain why Kyle looks so small. He's, like, six feet tall? But I almost forgot- I'm God. So of course he's small. Yeah.
A voice emanates from somewhere behind Kyle, sounding sort of relaxed and annoyed at the same time like I walked in on some retarded family moment, like maybe what telemarketers drop into all the time. "Ky? What's taking so long?"
Kyle lets out a long sigh and tosses his words over his shoulder. "Nothing, just hang on a second longer, hon." Hon? Haha, what a couple of gaywads. He turns back to me with his eyes all hard like I'm the one who's being a prick. Kyle's a prick. A sexy prick. "Look, Cartman, have you ever even considered uncramming your head from your fat fucking ass? I mean, it's not like he'll ever tell anyone, but Stan has problems too, you cock. We never even see each other anymore, and it's really bothering him. He needs me right now, okay?" he growls lowly, the words flying out of him, probably because he doesn't want Stan to know he thinks he's a total nutjob.
I stare at him for a few moments like I can't process what's going on right now. Might have something to do with the fact that I can't process what's going on right now, come to think of it. All I know is, Kyle's trying to ignore me because he can't deal with his own feelings. For shame, I mean, who would even do a stupid thing like that? "Kyyyyle, why are you ignoring me?" I whine, because this situation merits whining. "Don't we have something?"
Kyle makes a face like he's gagging on something. I know he's embarrassed, but that's just rude. What if I took that the wrong way? "No," he says emphatically, his fingers digging white dents into his arms. "In case you haven't noticed, I kind of have a boyfriend. I'm not a sleazebag, like someone I know."
Who's he talking about now? Tell this faggot to stay on the topic, goddamn it. "Come on, Kyle. You're acting like Butters." Kyle raises an eyebrow at the name, probably because they're partners in crime or something, so I ignore it. "You guys are all these big total fairies and you can't even handle me. But don't you remember? You an' me have done stuff tooooo." I put my hands on my hips and look as exasperated as I can. Girls have all the best body language, too bad I don't have an excuse to use it more often.
Kyle steps forward with a scowl and slams the door behind him, his voice still a hurried growl like it's still open. He's so silly. And such a douche. Kyle jabs a finger into my chest, sounding like he's practiced this in front of a mirror. He must really love me. "Cartman, we have only ‘done stuff'-" ensconced in weird air talons for some reason- "twice. Once, you took advantage of the fact that I was extremely drunk and disoriented, and basically just barged in on what was supposed to be me and Stan. I regret every minute of it and I could easily report you if I wanted. And as for the other, I only made out with you because, as you'll recall, I was a sexually frustrated and extremely confused ninth grader."
I find myself laughing at that. "Soooo... You came to me to help?" I waggle my eyebrows at him, like, you can't really throw your eyebrows at someone but I do it in his general vicinity. You know what I mean.
Kyle's making a face like he's about to hit something. He beats himself up over the dumbest things sometimes. "Do you remember, in your inebriated state, the part where you more or less forced me up against a wall, and the part immediately afterwards where I kicked you in the balls to get you to go away?" he says impatiently.
... Actually, I remember that part. It hurts just thinking about it. Kyle's got a fucking kick to him, especially with those faggy combat boots he used to wear because he was some sort of rebel. Couldn't walk right for the rest of the day. Kinda worth it, but still. I don't say anything.
He turns like he's ready to be done here, still talking with his face away from me. "I don't like you, Cartman. I never have, and I never will. Go home and sober up. And fix your goddamn makeup while you're at it."
Oh, shit is on. No one disses my makeup and gets away with it. I give the back of his stupid messy Jewfro the best glare I can muster. "You're a douchebag Jew, Kyle. I mean, damn, Jews are douchebags, but you're a douchebag even for a Jew."
"And you're a gender-confused closeted fatass," Kyle fires back flatly without turning.
"AY! I'm NONE of those!" I bark, gathering myself up indignantly. I don't care if I can hardly stand, I can still throw a punch if need be, and he's scraping the bottoms of my wells of patience.
His shoulders slump in a long exhale, and Kyle turns one last time, giving me the frankest look he has yet. Frankerest. Frankfurter. Whatever, he's talking and I should probably listen so I can get angrier. "Riiight. Which is why you're standing on my doorstep, wearing a miniskirt and high heels, and why you're bitching about how Butters won't pay attention to you and simultaneously trying to coerce me into being your bitch for a third time, and also why you weigh upwards of 200 pounds." Finally he shuts his big ugly whore mouth, and gives me a look like he's the one who's put upon here.
What a dick. "... Fuck you, Kahl, seriously." And yeah, his name comes out especially nasal even to me, but he hates it when I say his name like that so obviously-
"Whatever. Sorry, Stan, Cartman's drunk again..." The door slams right in my face, only reinforcing Kyle's dickery. Well, actually, he's always been a dick, and I've always felt this way about him. You know, the way where I want to jam a knife into his eye and then pin his hot ass to the ground.
Wait, where'd the bus go, again? I try to get off of Stan's porch and immediately almost fall on my ass, which is almost funny enough to wipe this scowl off my face. I take off my shoes, one of the heels folding in my hands, and start dragging my feet down the rough pavement of the darkened rich end of Bonanza Street. Uh. Where's my house again?
You know what, actually, I want to fuck up almost everyone's shit in every way possible. Kyle's just especially prevalent.
Actually, to be honest here, I just want to rip intestines and crush souls and basically just be a virgin-raping Norse god all day, every day. So what makes just him immune, why can't I even imagine truly enjoying hurting him, why can't I feel that way about-
Fuck. I'm not letting him get to me. Nor am I letting Kyle mess with my head, for that matter.
"I don't care about Butters," I say aloud. "You're wrong. I don't care about him." The streets don't answer, confirming that they don't care, either, and there's that. I know where I'm going now. I'm gonna get out of this goddamn sitcom family neighborhood and go home and smoke a blunt and laugh at my cat, and then I'm gonna sleep until tomorrow night and go out and fuck bitches and be an asshole, but first I gotta get home. So I sing as I go, stopping only to laugh every time I almost trip on a crack in the pavement or... well, nothing, sometimes. "I don't care, I don't care, I don't ca-aaaare..."
My phone is ringing. "Just dance, don't give a fuck, guess what, I don't care," I harmonize with Lady Gaga.
I dig it out of my tiny skirt pocket anyway. "Hello?"
"Eric?"
Shit. That's me. That's me, I'm Eric Cartman, I'm twenty years old, I'm wandering the streets of my town alone, it's too late for good people to leave their homes. I'm wearing women's clothing, I'm freezing, I'm stopped dead in my tracks under a streetlight, just asking to get my sweet ass bent over in a redneck's pickup truck. I'm overexaggeratedly acting like a drunken asshole in a misguided attempt to cope with the fact that most of the time I'm a sober asshole, recently failed to drink away my feelings, and I hurt so fucking much. And it's all my fault, and I know it. And I'm on the phone with Butters Stotch. And I care. I care about the call itself, but mostly, I care that it's him. I haven't cared about anything this much in forever.
Don't tell Kyle.
"Sup," I finally manage to say, coming out as a throaty whisper because, oh, whoops, where'd my voice go?
"Not really much, thanks for asking," he replies in a small voice, wrapped in static. Neither of us knows what to do then, I think. Butters finally ventures, "Do you really think I'm dead?"
"What? No. Dead people can't talk, Butters. Why would I think that?" No matter how much I say it, it would really fucking suck if you were dead.
"Well, um." I can almost see him shuffling nervously, probably curled up in a Hello Kitty snuggie and watching the tamest cop drama on the air in his shitty little apartment. "Your mom kinda called Linda in a big ol' tizzy and she said that you'd said I died..." he says weakly.
Linda? Who the fuck is this Linda everyone keeps mentioning- oh, right. His mom. They're on a first-name basis? Wow, has he really defected from his family that much? Are we talking about the same Butters here? "She was probably drunk again."
"Um, Eric, she said that you were the one that sounded pretty... Pretty not okay. Are you okay?" Butters asks, making a sudden turnaround between as accusing as he ever gets to overbearing concern.
"Yeah." No, I'm not. "What about you? Mom said something happened. Wasn't me, was it?" No. Wait. Why did I just say that? God damn it.
"No!" Butters blurts, so fast and defensive that it hurts something in my chest. "I mean, something did happen to me, but not to do with you." Of course not, why would it, seeing as he wants nothing to do with me. "I, I mean, my, my gramma died."
Holy shit, for real? Grammas dying is pretty lame for other people, I've been told. And seeing as I now have an unprecedented ability to give a fuck... "Dude," I say, in my best sympathetic voice. "I... I'm sorry."
"No, that's okay." Butters laughs nervously. "It was about time, and she was kind of a... well, a bitch, anyway... I guess. But it turns out there was a lot we didn't know ‘bout Gramma."
"Like what?" God, I keep asking all these leading questions and sounding genuinely interested and I'm not calling him nearly enough names. And somehow I've managed to end up sitting on this bench and every time I try to get up my legs give out, but his voice is just so relaxing and relieving and I just want to sit here and forget about everything except him talking in my ear. This is downright embarrassing, how obvious I'm being. Welcome to heartache fucking hotel.
"My gramma, she used to be real pretty back in the old days. Why, she was so pretty, they put her up on the movie screen," Butters says dreamily, like a kid telling stories about his firefighter dad. I can't say I'm surprised that he's got a beauty queen for a grandmother. I mean, just look at the guy. "She was actually a real big deal, one of those spoiled ladies in the funny hats from a hundred years ago, made a whole awful lot of money."
"And?" I ask.
"Not a whole lot, after that. She got kinda old, I mean, you probably knew that because she was my gramma, but she never forgot about the spotlight and all the fame, and she was... She was awful mean, Eric." I can hear him swallow, like it pains him to speak out against his family like this, and I have this urge to tell him it's okay and to keep going and basically just bring him over to my suburban rebel not-particularly-juvenile-legalwise-but-still-pretty-damn-juvenile delinquency. But that would ruin him for me. It's the fact that he isn't what I am that makes him so... Butters-y. Buttery. Whatever.
"And you're telling me this why?" Yeah, now I'm getting back on the asshole ball again. Which probably isn't gonna make him like me, but fuck the police, at least I won't be a soppy asshole and make a fool of myself.
"Way back when we were still kids I told her she needed to come to an agreement with herself, because she kept being so mean to me, because she was so mad she couldn't do anything else but pick on her grandkids, and I knew she didn't have much longer to go," Butters continues over me, remarkably lucidly compared to his normal feeble raspy accented stammer. "And I guess she listened to me, and maybe even I helped her, ‘cause I kind of inherited a whole lot of a Hollywood fortune."
Whispers of money? To a prostitute? God forbid. I sit up straight on my bench. "How much is a lot?"
He pauses. "Enough that I don't ever have to worry about paying the rent again. I guess," he trails off, his voice back to a nerve-wracked mumble.
And again with the guessing. Is nothing in his life certain? We're more similar than I thought. And, actually... Wait a minute. Is this some kind of payback again? Hasn't he done this before or something? Like I need to be made even more painfully aware of how great he is. Butters has reached a level of perfection only unlockable to my character through a cheat code I obviously don't know. "Great. And where the fuck, exactly, do I fit into this again?" I snap, flawlessly executing a total mood turnaround.
A car goes by and jabs me in the eye with its headlights. "I want to help you," Butters says.
"I don't need help." I try to vocalize my scowl.
"Damn it, Eric, don't you know how friends work or do you just not want me around that much?" he fires back at me without so much as a pause. And if I said the other silences were awkward, then fuck me, because boy was I wrong. If it was anyone else, any-fucking-one else, they'd probably call me an asshole and growl at me a little and then hang up, but he actually sounds anguished, like somehow, he actually... I don't know, gives a shit.
Butters does this sad sobby sort of hiss into the phone. "I'm sorry. I'm just gonna, uh-"
"I need help," I blurt, before I lose the will to do so.
There's a crash of static that I think might be him sighing. "Okay. Can you make it out to the Panera's in Colfax tomorrow at... maybe ten? For breakfast?"
"You eat soup for breakfast?" No, wait, shit. "I mean, yeah, sure. I can do that." What the actual fuck am I smiling about? Stop that, face.
I swear I can feel the radiance of the grin he pulls over the phone. "Great. That's great! Just get some sleep, okay? I don't want you fallin' asleep on me or nothing." Butters lets out this little Tinkerbell laugh. "See you tomorrow, Eric!"
Before I have enough time to come to a consensus as to whether or not it would be beyond the realm of creepy to beg him not to hang up, he already has. The night rushes back in, cold and dark, and I'm probably not going to see another human being until twelve hours from now. And suddenly I remember that I can't drive.
Okay, so, I'm pretty sure that I might have just been relieved of an inordinate amount of money in my headachey sleep-deprived state by a phone-order taxi dude, but hey, I made it to Panera Bread, and now I get to go on something that's probably going to end up being nothing short of a one-sided date. Egad. If that isn't moving up in the world, I don't know what is.
Seriously, though. Do you have any idea how much effort it took to find a shirt without stains and comb my hair this morning? If this doesn't go over without a hitch I want my money back, because this stupid ‘life' game sucks. It isn't even fair.
As soon as I swing open the glass door to the restaurant I get my ass double-teamed by a barrage of midmorning chatter and the scent of cooking onions. I flinch and start maneuvering through the well-dressed throng, and oh, of course, the only open table is right next to an enormous fucking window.
I close my eyes against the irritated swarm of light hovering around my head and collapse in a pile of rumpled unseasonable clothing on the table, a single island of don't-give-a-fuck in a sea of good-fucking-morning. And I'm pretty sure I fall asleep a little.
"Oh, wow, what are you doing way over here?" the world's most cheerful voice says right in my ear. I choke on air and whip upwards, suddenly very much awake, and crane around in search of the intruder and-
... Oh.
I've gotten so used to seeing him as a she, I forgot how much more beautiful he is in his own skin.
He's still got that weird-ass haircut, that hasn't changed in two years or ten- an effortless mop of long blonde locks on top, cropped short underneath- and his ridiculously blue eyes seem even huger without the liner. He's probably the only person I know who could execute the skinny jeans he's wearing, and he's got one corner of his pinstriped button-down shirt tucked into his pants, which, knowing him, is probably less of a fashion statement than it is an honest mistake.
As I take in his appearance, his face splits into the warmest smile Colorado's ever seen. "Hi," Butters says brightly.
And me, I keep staring like an asshole, and eventually wave one of my hands in something that may have seemed like an acceptable greeting if you weren't looking too hard.
Butters slides into the seat opposite me, sets one of those little vibrating order pagers on the table, and whips out a weird clusterfuck of papers from under his arm I'd been too distracted to notice. "How long have you been here?"
Hell if I know, I think I passed out on the table. "Uh, I don't know, maybe ten minutes?"
"Huh, I've been here since nine-thirty. Gee, Eric, you must've walked right past me!" Butters laughs completely blamelessly. It occurs to me that I forgot to check and see if he was actually already here. Stupid.
"Why'd you get here so early?" I say in lieu of any sort of apology, like the tactful bastard I am. Butters shrugs, appearing to legitimately consider the question.
"Well, jeez, I guess I don't really know! There's something sorta comforting about making sure you're there when you need to be," he answers uncertainly, and I get the feeling the being-there bit doesn't just apply to meetings.
"You should give fashionably late a try," I counter in a no doubt completely graceful attempt to change the subject.
"Better late than never," Butters beams. Not pointing fingers at me or my ways of life. Who the fuck gave him the right to be so perfect?
The pager makes its freaky fart noise and I yelp, wheeling a bit in my seat before realizing that no, it is not, in fact, a killer bee coming to take advantage of my groggy state. Butters doesn't seem to notice. "Oh, that'd be the drinks! I'll be right back."
"Whatever, dude," I say sleepily.
Butters darts off into the morning crowd, blending seamlessly, and suddenly I realize how very out-of-place I am here. This is his turf, we're in his territory, crammed with people who smell like laundry detergent and brush their teeth three times a day. Me, I think my shirt is fermented, and I'm pretty sure at this point I naturally smell like a bar.
I mean, fuck you, that's a good smell, but you get my point.
Anyway, if this was anyone else I'd be suspicious, but as I may have mentioned once or twice in my life, this is Butters, and even if I'd like to say he's too stupid to set me up, he really isn't. On some level, at least, he likes me, even if it's only on the level of vague friendliness, as if he has any other outward interaction mode. Funny- you'd think that I'd be glad with him liking me at all, but no, I'm nitpicking about how he likes me the wrong fucking way. Four for you, Cartman, that's not a dick move at all, and there's no way you're setting your expectations way too goddamn high. Kyle clearly calls you selfish for no fucking reason at all. I can't even believe I used to buy my own garbage. Still act like I do, but hey, gotta keep up appearances...
"Eric? Are you okay?" Butters asks tentatively, snapping me back into the outside world. He's looking at me apprehensively, holding out a steaming paper coffee cup of something by the insulatory grip, clearly meant for me. I swipe it out of his hands in overcompensation and choke down the top two inches as soon as is humanly possible, which is not actually a good idea, because I end up doing an actual fucking spit take that is at least fifty percent whipped cream.
"Butters, what the fuck!" I warble screechily, trying to wipe my coffee-covered face with my coffee-covered hand in a display of prime efficiency. "Did you just put sugar in a cup and heat it?!"
Butters looks remarkably unperturbed, but responds all the same. "Oh, Eric, I'm sorry you don't like your coffee! I just kinda reckoned you liked sugary drinks... You know." I guess he's talking about back before he bailed on our little competition, back when he used to fetch all my embarrassingly girly drinks for me. And, okay, appletinis are fucking delicious, but god damn it, coffee is supposed to taste like the milk of a gorilla with a thyroid problem.
"No, you asshole, can't you even take your coffee like a man?" I grumble sulkily. Butters' smile shrinks by a couple of teeth, and the hand drifting towards the napkin holder falls like a shot goose. Let's recap: until I outright called him an asshole, he was still going to get me napkins, and I bet he would have wiped my face like a fucking nanny if I had let him. Although I think I've drowned in my narrative pity long enough, small wonder that I constantly get all caught up in his presence. Butters is a better mom than my mom. I'm not even going to explore the possibility of some sort of Oedipus complex going on here, okay.
After a while of slurping and looking as offended as is humanly possible with the limits of facial muscles being what they are, it turns out that upside-down caramel macchiato whatthefuck isn't actually that bad. I try to look apologetic, but I think it may have looked as if I was battling a sneeze or something, because Butters, in turn, does this weird thing between a smile and ducking and covering.
"So what, are you adopting a Chinese baby?" I say.
"What?" Butters asks.
"You know, you're supposed to adopt Chinese babies if you're flaming gay and rich. Have a little compassion, Butters, Jesus Christ." I raise an eyebrow at his manilla folder.
Thankfully he gets the joke and I don't further his state of offense, otherwise I think I might have to quit reality. Butters giggles- actually giggles- like all is forgiven, just like that. "Ahaha, no, Eric. This..." He holds the folder up, Lion King-style, which is funny because it's a fucking office supply filled with shabby-looking papers, and I'm the only person who gives a shit here. Like... You know what, it's funny to me, fuck off. "This is what I asked you here to take a peek at!"
I glance at a stray newspaper clipping. It's a personal ad for some Thai masseuse. "So what's this amazing revelation?" I say suspiciously. I can't say I was necessarily expecting that, to say the least.
Butters seems wholly unperturbed. "I'm telling you, Eric, I wanna, well, I wanna help you make all those dreams of yours you told me about come true!"
Oh, Jesus. "Butters," I interject hastily. "I don't think this is really the place-"
"Just look!" Butters throws the folder open on the table gleefully, and for a second I'm about to just bail the fuck out of there before Butters embarrasses both of us, but thankfully there are no Playboy pullouts contained within its cardstock. Suddenly, the choppy side view makes sense- Butters has scrapbooked a folder. He appears to have utilized every square inch of available space with carefully trimmed cutouts from newspapers and all manner of advertisements. They all seem to have something to do with realty.
I whistle appreciatively, thumbing at the slight dogears on a miniature pamphlet, attached with what looks like teal glitter glue. "Nice art project. Don't see what it has to do with me, though."
Butters flushes happily. "Oh, that, oh, I was just trying to make it look all nice an' presentable, it's nothing special..." He knocks his hands together unconsciously. "Ya know you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, though, Eric. Take a look."
I do. They're noted in different colors of gel pens, which actually doesn't seem completely gay, because Butters clearly meant them to be pretty, and they are, in a girly way. They're all ads for burnt-out (sometimes literally) ex-establishments, bland clean-cut professional contrasts to Butters' loopy handwritten remarks.
+ cheap as spit, - fire damage!!! can't have it all, i guess.
looks good but the floorboards are all mud and there's rats in the walls!! i don't think this salesman was being very straightforward when he wrote this ad. :( i sure wouldn't eat no food from here!!
And then, next to an appealing color photo circled with three different colors of ink:
PERFECT!!!!!! i sure hope eric agrees!!!
I can feel the realization creeping over me, probably because it brings with it in its wake one of my famously, stupidly blatant blushes. And I could fight that shit, but oh my god: Butters literally went through what looks like every building on the market for fifty miles and considered how suitable they'd be for my stupid half-formed dreams of haut cuisine, and labeled them all with perfect little exclamation-littered Buttersisms, focused on...
"You did this for me," I say faintly.
Butters shuffles, smiling humbly and peering out from between two shaggy locks of his mop. "Well, shucks... I guess."
Suddenly, for whatever obscure reason, my chest feels like it's going to explode. I cough, because I feel like doing something uncomfortably close to squealing like a fat little fucking pig.
"See, Eric, to be honest, havin' money and all is k-kinda... um, boring!" Butters looks like he's kind of surprised at what his mouth is doing, which I thought was something that only happens to me. "Before I had to work hard, and do things I didn't really want to, and things have never been so easy for me... I mean, it's... nice, and I hate to sound ungrateful, but I just don't know what to with myself."
Part of me wants to smack him for being such a spoiled little brat already, but objectively speaking, I know that he really doesn't know how to function without constantly keeping one eye on his ass. Butters is the kind of person who makes it almost impossible to see inside his head, but he's always had a lot of shit going on. School, friends, even shit as simple as clothes- he worried almost as much as Tweek if you knew what to look for, and all of that was because of those fucking parents. Having them loom over him for twenty years- yeah, actually, I can't blame him for being clueless.
Still, I cock an eyebrow, doing an excellent job of looking the gift horse in the mouth. "So you want me around to fuck things up."
"Yes!" Butters blurts, then just as quickly switches to "No, wait, that wasn't right. No! I mean..." He trails off weakly, looking pathetic. "I just wanted to help you, Eric... I like helping people, okay? And I care about you, you know."
"I know," I parrot, because I do, but it's not enough. I want his time and his life and his gel pens and I want him to wear my fishnets, not necessarily in that order, but right now I have a folder, and I'm going to have to learn to appreciate that, god damn it. "But, let me get this straight for a second here, B-Butts, m'kay?" I lean back in my seat and fold my arms over my chest. "You're running around looking at buildings for something I mentioned like twice when I was stoned out of my fucking mind, without even asking first?"
Belatedly, I realize I haven't called him that in literal years.
Butters wilts. "Well, I... I guess it sounds mighty silly when you put it like that..."
"Butters," I say clearly, and he looks up again. I pause seriously and give him a serious look, so as to inject some seriousness into the situation. Seriously. "Thank you. This is... some pretty dope shit right here," I add lamely, because things were getting too socially acceptable for poor little Eric to handle.
I seriously wonder how he's been able to handle me emotionally jerking him around for the past fifteen minutes or whatever, but Butters perks instantly, for the umpteenth time. "It makes me so happy to hear you say that, Eric!" He actually says things like that. Goddamn. "I was thinking, I mean, if you still wanted to, and if you were okay with it, we could... maybe... do one of those business partnership... thingies?" he says uncertainly, drawing circles with his pointer finger in his opposite palm.
Okay, this is the part where I have to break the happy little rainbow we have going on here. "Butters, I am poor as shit. I think Kenny might actually have me beat at this point."
"But that doesn't matter!" Butters says insistently, wide-eyed. "Eric, I don't want this much money. I don't like it. I tried charities, but Gramma said I wasn't supposed to, because they were all baby-killers and terrorist-supporters. It was all right there, in her will."
"What even?"
"I mean, it's not like I'm just throwing it at you, right?" Butters forges on obliviously, looking like he's asking himself for permission as much as he is me. "You've got a lot of work to do, too, right, I mean, with all those recipes and being head chef and all of that." The words ‘head chef' suddenly sound like an audible hand job, I note, attentions considerably more piqued. "And you're probably gonna have to go through all the paperwork to get the darn thing started in the first place, because, I'd do it for you, and I think I can still help, but I think you have to if it's your business..."
My business. Jesus Christ. Butters is literally making life worth living in the course of one conversation. "D... Dude," I stammer, feeling rather out of my element. "I was too drunk to go to our high school graduation. I've spent the past two years as a fucking hooker. I'm not even old enough to buy a gun, and the last time we talked I-" I swallow, hard, around the apparent boner my throat decided to pop. "Why are you doing this to me?" I finally manage, like he stabbed me or something.
Butters smiles gently, his already normally soft eyes practically melting. "Oh, Eric, I told you." Like it's the most obvious thing in the world. He cares about me.
Of course, I'm basically this big drunkard douche who needs to be carted around and looked after so I don't play in traffic or something, and he's dragging my ass out of poverty right now like some kind of weird religious obligation-type thing, but still, it's something, Cartman, stop taking shit for granted, Cartman, Christ almighty.
I squint. "Hypothetically?" I'm not sure whether I'm talking about his offer or his caring.
"Not if you want it not to be." It sounds like he doesn't either.
I look suspiciously from him to the folder to him, looking for something- anything- to fuck everything up, some fatal flaw in this actual miracle. But even if there was, what have I got to lose? "Okay," I relinquish.
"Okay?" Butters bleats excitedly, his eyes widening in an unduly wide smile.
"Okay," I repeat. "Partners and shit. All that." I extend a hand, deciding against spitting in it. Butters takes it gleefully, and just then the pager screeches again.
After I apologize for the second time this year for possibly spraining his wrist, Butters returns with what's either the cheesiest bread or the breadiest cheese I've ever seen. I munch on my croissant-y... thing... and basically just try to stay cool while Butters rambles about how great our lives are going to be now that we're all buddy-buddy, and not, for example, sweep everything off the table and leap over it and kiss him and not even be angry about it.
One of the few things I can remember getting through the blissful haze when we part ways is him saying "So you can start coming over whenever it's convenient for you so we can get started, okay?"
It's only later that evening with a fistful of dick in both hands that I realize just how fucked I could potentially be, and it has nothing to do with my current circumstances.
I don't know at what point in my life I reached the shaven neckbeard stage, but it strikes me pretty clearly that that is, in fact, an accurate descriptor for me, as I'm wiping my hands on my jacket and stepping off a bus and feeling like a newborn baby- what is this thing called fresh air? Why are there cotton balls in the sky? Aren't I going to get sunburn out in broad daylight like this?
I do not, in fact, get sunburn, but I'm feeling a little uncomfortably well-insulated as I find my way to the address Butters gave me. It's a weird fucking place, perched on the outskirts of Denver amongst the mediocre tourist shops, one of those goddamned hippy buildings that's all browny-orange wood on the outside with tons of windows that they claim is environmentally friendly, but I think that wood is like, redwood, or some shit, so if they're building apartments of a moderate size out of it how nice to the planet can it be?
In other words, it suits him perfectly.
On the inside it smells like new coats of paint and the floor is unscuffed, and for a moment I panic- holy shit, did he build this place on his own dime?- but a plaquard proclaims its sponsorship by some Latin author with a weird metaphor for a name, so there goes that theory. Positive: there's only 5 stories, this is no World Trade Center. Negative: the hippies didn't see the benefits of an elevator based on that fact alone. Double negative (and fuck grammar): for all his bitching, Butters still didn't see the irony of a rich heir living in a penthouse apartment. So yeah, here be a bunch of hypocritical douches.
I'm feeling awfully uncomfortable about all the plate glass surrounding the staircase by the time I'm up all those fucking stairs. I'll say one thing (hahaha irony) in Butters' favor- his door isn't a teenage girl slumber party do not disturb bedazzled monstrosity, as I had somehow managed to preconceive. In fact, it has a nice bronze little plaque, with the room number (really? Really. 10 rooms in the building and they feel they need a room number. Okay.) and ‘B. Stotch.'
I stare at his name for a little while. I dunno, I think I'm thinking about how it says B and not L. Does anyone even remember his real name? Because I do. I never understood why he wouldn't use it, actually. We all had names like Kenneth and Stanley, and he had fucking Leopold. It's one of those words that feels good on your tongue- shut up, fucker, you know I'm right- and it sounds like you're a goddamned prince when you introduce yourself. And he glommed onto the punny nickname one of us awarded him when the worst curses we knew were things like ‘butt' and ‘poop.' You know, a million years ago.
"It's unlocked! You can come in!" the door says cheerfully. No, wait, fuck, doors can't talk. Was I that loud coming up the stairs? Or can he just hear me breathing heavily and staring at his door like a well-adjusted citizen of society?
I barge through the door perhaps a little too intensely. Like, I should have screamed something along the lines of ‘the party's here, fuckers' and burst into a frat party but instead I'm doing this weird pained grimace like someone just ran over my toes, and the house looks like it belongs on the cover of Martha Stewart or something holy shit what this is awesome it smells like trees. Butters isn't waiting on the other side of the door in nothing but a candy thong, so I take some time to get my bearings. Living room, okay. The floor is made of those weird spun grass mats, kind of like those Japanese things, so it feels kind of vaguely squishy and inviting. The walls and décor are all various bright autumny shades, and the only thing in the room that seems remotely frivolous is the flatscreen against the wall. And who wouldn't buy a flatscreen with an inheritance? Really. I mean, really.
"I'm in here!" Butters calls again, sounding content and vaguely lightheaded. I swivel towards the sound like a cat after a can opener, and boom, there's this big-ass doorway right across from me and a clear view of Butters sitting at a two-seater café table, poring over some papers. How I missed that I will legitimately never know.
I creep into his kitchen like the door is booby-trapped. Honestly, look at this from his perspective- I'm this big unemployed blob who hasn't been seen outside of his house in daylight since graduation, proving my own worthlessness by acting like a perfectly friendly environment is about to go all Indiana Jones temple of doom. For his part, Butters takes it in stride, looking up from his paperwork to smile a teeth-whitener-strip commercial smile and wave. "Make yourself at home!" he instructs cheerfully, gesturing at the seat opposite him. I perch in it with all of the same suspicion I've for some reason had since arriving and fold my arms over my chest, squinting at him and tucking my feet under the chair.
Yeah, my house manners are fucking awesome.
"Was the drive over okay?" Butters asks, looking back down at his papers. I glance at them askance. They look enormously legal.
"I don't drive," I say, a bit on the defensive side. Or, you know, a lot.
"Oh, well, that's okay, I'm not a big fan myself," he says without looking up- he has this way of making small talk while multitasking and still making it seem like he cares. I shift in my seat and rest my chin in my hand. On top of it all, I've got my elbows on the table. Shame on me.
There we sit, Butters humming softly as he scribbles in loopy handwriting, me trying to decide whether or not fidgeting is more of a tell than sitting stock still.
"So, uh," I finally speak up. "Am I just over here to supervise you or something? Because you're the older one, dumbass. Soooo..." Goddammit. Let's fucking insult him some more. I'm a strategic master.
"Oh, jeez, sorry, Eric!" he replies without batting an eye. "I guess I got a l'il bit distracted, huh? Hold on a sec." He gets up, pushes in his seat in what I'm guessing is a reflex, and trots off to a door behind him. Jesus, how big is this place? Lucky son of a bi- biscuit. Gotta break that habit.
When he returns, he's holding a thick sheaf of papers held together by one of those big black clips you can use to pinch other people's bingo wings and make them freak out really bad. Except his is powder blue, his favorite color, the kind half the shirts he owns must be at the least. He hands it to me. It's at least as big as the one he's holding. I stare.
"How many of these do you have?"
"Oh, four or five," Butters says vaguely, flapping his hands at an invisible moth.
"Four or five! Jesus, we're opening a fucking restaurant, not building a nuclear reactor," I snarl at the papers. Not at him. I can be taught after all.
"Well, um." Butters fidgets. "There's all those health an' safety regulations you've gotta go through, an' then there's the building itself, an' the refurnishing, on account of the last people took all their stuff with them. And... There's something else."
I look up at him expectantly. Butters forges onwards. "I, um... I had to tell who I was getting the papers for when I went down to the town hall, and they ran a check on your name."
Oh jesus.
"Now, Eric, I ain't blaming you for nothing, and I know this was all a long time ago, but there was that whole hamburger thing-"
"That was once! One time! And they were good!"
"-and that time with KFC-"
"That was that Sanders asshat!"
"-and they think you might have AIDS-"
"Are they fucking retarded?!"
"-and the disappearance of the Tenormans-"
"I was a minor and that was provoked!"
"-and also suspicion of circumventing laws regarding prostitution," Butters says quietly. I gape at him, clutching the papers so hard my hands are sweating a little.
"What the fuck!" I finally cry. "If they have so many issues with me why are they letting me do this at all?" I knew this was too good to be true. Any second now, that douche with the mullet is going to jump out with a camera and tell me how punked I got, and Butters is going to laugh and laugh and cut my balls off for good measure.
Butters shifts on his feet, playing with the edge of his shirt. "Maybe they think you deserve a chance, too," he says finally, cocking his head and furrowing his eyebrows. I stare at him, then look back at the papers.
BUSINESS LICENSE APPLICATION (COUNTY OF DENVER)
"Shit," I grumble, crumbling fast.
I won't get into the nitty-gritty of what the rest of the day entails- partially because it's boring as fuck, partially because I couldn't tell you what I was doing if I tried. Countless times I find myself staring slack-jawed at a chunk of text while Butters is merrily scratching away behind me, flying through forms like they're asking him things like ‘what's 2+2?' Did he get the beginner's edition? I don't speak legalese.
So that's all fine and well, but then that's kind of the way the next month, or something, turns out to be like. Turns out in the real world you have to actually keep track of time, and at some point the month digit I'm putting on papers changes. The good days are ones where I have to add things to our starter menu, and I spend the day mixing and tasting and baking and basically making use of Butters' Home and Garden poster child kitchen. The bad ones are when we have to spend hours handing off a line to some brainless moron in the heart of Denver who has no fucking clue what's going on, but has a PhD. in business or something that gives him the right to talk at us like he's the one paying our bills, all the while scribbling down info for hours. No, I mean actual hours, switched to different departments, possibly even buildings. I think we might have actually talked to the mayor at some point. Butters does as much as he can, and admittedly is much better-tempered about it than I, giving me plenty of time to throw the phone on his couch and storm off to scream at the kitchen walls, but usually they need to talk to me for one reason or another.
I don't understand why they need to get it straight from the horse's mouth. Butters seems to be taking the role of all things PR-related along with sponsorship. I'm content to sit behind the scenes and crank out culinary masterpieces. Something I knew all along is confirmed- that I cook better than college fuckers- but as it turns out, you don't actually need a degree if you're your own head chef. All you need is the talent to keep people interested, and a minimum standard of hygiene- or the money to buy off the health inspector. Yeah, I wouldn't trust Colorado politics if I were you, either.
Honestly, though, the only things that really keep the days differentiated are the different little quirks I pick up about Butters. I keep expecting this level of contact to bring my inner asshole out in full force, the way it always was back in the idyllic land of elementary school, but now there's no other fuckers to have to put up a front for. I don't know, when I was around the others, I always found myself getting a lot more fed up a lot faster, but there were times- like those sleepovers, heinous and awesome as they might have been, or even that one time when my shithead friends ignored me for a while- when it was just the two of us, and things were calm and actually pretty nice, and I think that was what finally made a dent on me. And I hate to say it, but I think I'm slowing down in my old age. Either that or the weird feeling in my chest is a very real parasitic tumor, and I'm fucked.
I want to be mad at him for being such a homebody, but I can't. He just does it so damn well. He usually only really leaves for a walk after lunch, often bringing back various flora from the fading summer to swap out of a few artsy glass vases he tucks in various corners to ‘liven up the place' (like it needs it), groceries and, by extension, any supplies I need for my experiments, and an art class he takes at the community college on Thursdays. We're a couple of veteran hookers who never went to school and now we're starting a business together. Oh, the juiciness of the gossip.
Speaking of art, though, he's really fucking good. I mean, seriously, I knew that every day when he starts getting a little fried he heads out to his living room to sketch and play around with paints, which is probably more productive than what I do, which is vent, loudly. But when the walls of the living room start filling up with bright, loose watercolors of flowers and cityscapes, it takes me an embarrassingly long time to notice the squiggly teal signature in the bottom corner- B. Stotch. I know he spends all his time here, but even so soon I'm wondering how he finds enough time in the day for all the stuff he manages to pull off.
Another thing I notice is his seemingly near-addiction to the internet. Which is surprising to me, because he never really seemed the type. Every day he takes his lunch break at the same time in the living room and if I go to get his help for something, or on days I don't arrive until the afternoon due to shit like hangovers or soreness, he's always on the couch with his laptop (faggy Mac bullshit), headphones in, and the way he flushes and smiles makes me pretty sure that our Butters is watching porn. Until I manage to see over his shoulder when he's particularly focused on the screen, and catch a flash of cartoon horses.
Okay, our school fell victim pretty hardcore to the brony craze a few years ago, probably yet another sign that we were all straight as fuck, but we all dropped it junior year out of some sort of unwritten collective embarrassment, the entirety of which Stan of course thought was funny as hell, still being in his Wendy throes of faked straightness. It doesn't surprise me that Butters still watches it though, on YouTube, at the same time as its old time slot, and that would be something to laugh at if I couldn't remember the names of ponies like Berry Punch and Sea Swirl. Fucking. Sea. Swirl. Butters panics when he first catches me over his shoulder, but we kind of come to another agreement without saying anything, and he stops using his headphones, piping songs through the kitchen I'm not as embarrassed as I should be that I still know the words to.
Speaking of music, he has... interesting tastes. He likes to play music when we're working through a particularly solid clusterfuck of paperwork. Not shit like I Love The Nightlife, thank god, I got enough of those retarded ‘gay culture anthems!' at Kirby's. I'm talking shit no one in the fucking state listens to except him, because I've sure never heard it in my goddamned life. Some of it's actually pretty good, but when I ask Butters what he's playing, he cheerily replies "Mika!" or "Nevershoutnever!" You know, really helpful and informative shit. Thanks for that clarification, Butters. Everything makes sense now.
Seriously, one day he shows me a music video on our downtime to... something or other that he's played. I recognize the tune, vaguely, but I guess it's some sort of live acoustic version, because the camera is handheld and shitty as all getout. Bunch of fuckers that think they're robots, or something, painted up all metal-y and way too goddamned talkative. Sure, when they actually start playing, they're... alright. Kind of corny. I can see why he'd like it, though, especially because there's this one tiny dude, flamboyant as fuck, with overalls. He's got the same exact build as Butters, I swear, but he's kind of annoying. Which is weird, because from what little I see, they're practically the same person.
What's fucking wrong with me? What demon is this to captivate me so to the point of favoritism?
Cute motherfucker, that's what.
We find a middle ground on the music front in our Lady, of course. Because if you don't like Lady Gaga then fuck you too. It progresses from us vaguely acknowledging the other's foot-bobbing to humming tiny fragments of harmonies to prancing around the kitchen like the fairies we kind of are, singing like teenage girls at a sleepover, tunelessly, idiodically, and completely ecstatically. And it's fun, okay? It's really fun, letting my dumbass side out with someone I know I can trust.
Maybe I trust him a little too much, actually. The day we get the last form dotted and crossed, Butters cranks up the surround sound through the whole apartment, which I'm sure pleases the neighbors greatly. It's like a tiny, dorky dance party, especially with the delicious crunchy beat of Judas shaking the plates, me belting every word and busting out some moves I may or may not have learned in my previous line of work and Butters smiling so wide I think his face might split, even when I bump him with my hips (for fun, asshole), which has a little bit more of an effect than I intended with his twiggy frame what it is. I grab him by the hand on the last chord, spinning him against my chest, so we're standing a little too close to be friendly as Lady Gaga's proclamation of her own name fades away. I realize I'm panting, but I don't seem to be able to stop doing that, or staring into his soul-devouring baby blues.
Butters smiles. Uncomfortably. "So, um... See you next week to start opening the place up, right?"
"Right," I mumble, stepping backwards and shuffling noncommittally on my feet. And then I bolt for the door, because jesus. That was way too fucking close. And yet it wasn't close enough.
I think I forgot to mention that the building used to house one of the most important restaurants in the whole world: Bennigan's.
It would certainly explain Butters' unusual predilection towards the blown-out husk, anyway. And I'll be honest, the place is in good shape. Bare as a newborn's ass, sure, but otherwise pretty sweet. It's amazing how fast a couple of good contractors can rip up a floor and rig a new lighting system, really. Sure isn't anything I'd ever sign up for.
At first I'm not sure what direction I want to go with the décor, until one of the working men politely informs me that my second concept looks like a faggy ripoff of Olive Garden, which is a five minute drive away and has considerably more ground on which to stand. So my new second home is a black-and-white-tiled, silver-trimmed, red-leather masterpiece of gleaming lights, good food, and a 50s atmosphere without the bullshit music.
It's actually amazing, the change we make in that place in a matter of days. Turns out the crucial ingredient to starting a restaurant is elbow grease, as corny as that sounds. It kind of brings a tear to my eye, to be honest. The last thing we put up before opening night is the sign, just the morning before- it's sort of a symbolic thing. It's getting colder again, and Butters is bundled up in a girly jacket and a scarf, a bittersweet look on his face as they bolt my sign in place to his bankrupt haven.
CARDIGAN'S.
Yes, it's a pun.
"Hey," I say, because I'm feeling kind of jelly-legged, entirely not myself. Butters turns, his tentacle hair squirming in the light breeze, and his eyes look a little too bright. I reach out a hand, awkwardly resting it on his shoulder. "I... I'll do it proud."
There we stand, I in the same red jacket and hat I've been wearing my whole life, he looking flamboyant but quietly sure, looking at a restaurant no one's ever eaten in.
"I know you will," Butters replies, soft and fragile. "I know it."
And if I ever said I knew what hard work was before that fucking night, then fuck me. We were only able to scrape up two additional chefs for the kitchen, one a survivor of Garrison's homicidal tendencies for whom I had to dig up my old Spanish skills because the fucker was too lazy to learn English when working in America, and the other a woman so enormously bloblike she can barely walk around the kitchen without panting. She actually makes me look good- and, to be honest, things aren't fitting the way they used to. I guess what they say about getting your shit together helping with weight problems too actually is true, because for all the sampling, slurping, and just plain snacking I do, I'm actually losing weight. Fuck you if you think I'm going to lose my figure, but... I'm in a place now where I can admit before I might have skeeved out a few customers, and now I'm just a chef who likes his own food.
We invited pretty much everyone in the whole town, but mostly who shows up is our classmates. Kyle and Stan appear to have resolved whatever problems they were having, giggling like fags and clinging all over each other. Kenny even makes a guest appearance, which I've gotta admit is pretty fucking awesome.
"You came out here all the way from New York just for me?" I say in my nicest suck-up voice, greeting him at the door like every other guest who arrives in time for the hors d'oeuvres (mini quiches, bitches.)
Kenny shrugs, looking up the near foot between us at me with that same ‘I could kick your ass but I like you so we're cool' smile he's always had, shaking out shaggy golden locks from his hood. "It was about time I came back home for a visit anyway. I'd say half-off food from Eric Cartman is worth the ride."
Man, I missed him. Not even gonna lie.
Of course, not a half-hour later I'm taking orders in waves, screeching at the fucking Mexican and cracking the whip at blob woman. Never in my life have I made so many goddamned burgers. Forget having meat under my nails. I'm pretty sure my nailbeds have been replaced by patty-producing cells by the time I've shaped every last chunk of meat. I guess that's what I get for specializing in oh-so-creative American food. Butters runs crowd control, mixes so-so drinks (we managed to get an alcohol license three days before opening night; this is kind of Butters' birthday party, meanwhile there's the immense logical lapse of the Denver pundits not wanting a murderer to open a restaurant and yet being fine with an underage owner selling alcohol?) and passes out menus, each of which is hand-lettered by him in gel pens, because why the hell not, and does it in a suit too.
Once the orders are capped off I watch, panting, from behind the little glass window out to half the town, all sitting together over great food and friends. Which, if you think about it, was always something I could stand for. That was really the whole point all along. Butters lifts a glass, even though he quickly decided that alcohol really wasn't his thing, says some nice words about founding this lovely establishments, and glosses over all the parts that were a pain in the ass-
"Let's have a hand for your chef and my- well, my good pal, Eric Cartman!"
-except me.
Butters raises his martini, and holy shit, I watch from behind my shield of a door as nearly everyone who's ever had a hand in my life does the same, smiling, clapping, cheering- congratulating. I stand there dumbfounded as fat chick smokes a cigarette she shouldn't have in here and Mexican eats some leftovers, trying to swallow around the mysterious lump in my throat the size of the Colorado sky.
Butters darts towards the door, pulls it open, laughing. For a split second he stares up into my face and I know what happiness looks like. Then he's pulling me by the arm, presenting what I'm sure is a pretty ridiculous image- twiggy blonde dude in an impeccable suit dragging this enormous guy in a splattered apron and a hat- and when he arrives in the center of the restaurant, my fucking restaurant, people actually stand, clapping their guts out. Kyle looks vaguely alarmed at himself for this, and Clyde is passed out in the corner with drinks I know he's not old enough to have but I'll let slide for tonight scattered over the table, but I'm getting an actual standing ovation for doing what I'm good at.
I think they want a speech but all they get is me flushing bright red and turning my back on everybody so they don't see me turn into a blubbering baby. Which gets lots of aws and chuckles, which I don't even care about.
Because, this.
Just this.
I'm yawning by the time we shove Clyde out the door, the kitchen help grumbling in two languages over having to clean up at midnight, and Butters is sitting at the bar, loosening his tie and flipping through bills, smiling sleepily to himself.
I toddle over to him and collapse into the adjacent seat. "Sweet," I say at length.
Butters laughs to himself. "Yeah, buddy. Sure was." I watch him with pie eyes as he doles out at least two benjamins, amazed that I can make that kind of money only touching literal sausages. "We've come a long way. Well, you have." Butters sets down the stack of bills and looks me in the eyes, a cherubic smile twisting his lips. "I'm so proud of you, Eric."
"Adios!" says Mexican from the door, holding it as fat chick lumbers out. I nod in their general direction before turning back to Butters. I know I should keep my mouth shut, that it's late, that I've just had my first day of honest work, that I'm delusional, but- "Really?" I blurt. "I mean, really, really? After what I did to you?"
Butters cocks his head from side to side, honestly considering this. "Whaddaya mean?"
"Back at Kirby's. All that shit," I say, a familiar bitter edge that's been conspicuously absent lately creeping dangerously near the edges of my voice. "I still can't believe you'd want to put up with me after that."
An uncomfortable look crosses Butters' face. What a surprise. "Oh, well, that's the past now. Shucks, I was in a pretty bad place myself at the time. No harm done, really. I mean, all that I ever thought was real bad was that time when ya- you know, kissed me. An' I know you didn't mean it," he says quietly, looking down at his lap.
"No, I didn't," I blurt sincerely, reaching out a hand for something but thinking better of it. We sit there, in awkward silence, wasting more time than we need to in the wee hours of the morning- just like old times. Butters lifts his head, doing his best to offer me a smile of ... forgiveness? Like, all is well.
And then, because I can't leave well enough alone, I say, "If I had meant it I would have done this," and lean into the first kiss I've ever really meant.
It's lewdly familiar, the way Butters gasps and stiffens, not pulling away but not doing anything. I fucking abort that shit, and he just stares at me with wide eyes and his hands folded in his lap. "Um." I stand up hurriedly. "That is, if I had meant it."
"Uh... huh," Butters says, his voice a mix of emotion too heartrending to really dig into.
"N-nice work," I stammer, a nervous laugh clawing its way out of my chest. "See you tomorrow."
"Uh-huh," he says again, faster, turning his head away. I make my way to the door, trying hard not to run and scream and jump off a fucking bridge. I turn back after I swing it open. Butters has his head at an angle that hides his eyes. All I can see is his mouth. He's not smiling.
"I'm sorry," I say from the door, and my voice breaks, because I really needed that now.
And in the parking lot I realize I just scared away my designated driver in life away. Again. And that he's actually kind of my actual driver, too, and now I can hike across town in the cold September air and beat myself up every step of the way.
Someday I'm going to have to get my shit together, because Butters won't give up on me, and in a way that's what sucks the most of all.
Hahaha, you actually thought things were going to turn around for a second there, didn't you? Don't worry, so did I.
What actually happens, because this is not some corny gay love story movie or whatever, is that every night for the first week we see progressively less customers, possibly because of the aura of discontent between the waiter and the head chef. I'm exhausted and hurting and wondering how I got myself into this mess by Saturday, so what do I do? I make the best decision of my life so far.
I go back to Kirby's.
The man himself is at the bar tonight, and mocks surprise at seeing his favorite big-boned glammed-out hooker perched like a delicate flower and sulking up a storm. "Well, what do we have here! Mr. Head Chef himself!"
"Not in the fucking mood, Kirb," I growl up at him.
"Alright, sweet cheeks," he says, oozing smarm from every greasy, balding pore. "Just make sure you start cutting me a bigger slice of the pie. Soon," he adds pointedly.
I sigh dramatically and bat blue eyelids at him. "Oh, Kirby. Dearest, sweetest Kirby. When have you ever got a slice of the pie?"
Kirby sets down the glass he's polishing and gives me a look I was actually not expecting out of him. "Now. Or else I'm bringing the cops down on you and your ‘business's' pretty little head." He does that gross little middle-aged Italian waddle away, and you can just feel the smugness across the room.
I gape after him, probably the picture of one of those sassy heavy-set best-friend cliché types struck dumb with a ruby-ringed O-mouth, then slump. Of course. I need that too. I didn't have enough on my plate. I stare dejectedly at the far wall, looking for something- anything- to keep me from burning through what's left of my stash before anyone even arrives.
And that's when I notice the Asshole-Maker 9000.
Okay, that's not what it's actually called, but it's this little karaoke machine that Kirby keeps at the end of the bar, so drunken dipwads can access storied libraries of MP3s over the Wi-Fi, prance around and sing- badly- at the top of their lungs, hence becoming asshoes. I don't think I've seen anyone use it in at least seven months.
But suddenly I'm sitting in the closest seat to it and scanning through lists of Lady Gaga snippets, and I suddenly know exactly how to get at least a little peace of mind.
been a long time since i came
around
been a long time, but i'm back in town
and this time i'm not leaving without you
you take like whiskey when you kiss me, oh
i'd give anything again to be your baby doll
and this time i'm not leaving without you.
Fuck you to the bartender, fuck you to my customers, fuck you to the people who sing songs that are actually country with this all-powerful machine, fuck you to everything giving me shit. It's completely flawless, and I can just sit here, singing away in a smoky voice, leaning on the bar like I'm a 50s starlet, and glare at the back of Kirby's head. And it actually feels good, giving a shit, being pissed off at the routine. It feels so good that soon I tire of Kirby's balding pate and just close my eyes, swaying slightly to the tune I've heard a thousand times, and for a second it feels like I really can conquer everything.
something, something about this place
something about lonely nights and my lipstick on your face
something, something about my colorado guy
just something about- baby, you and i
Huh. The change flies off my tongue effortlessly. Can't say I meant to do that, but it fits in the song. Basically, I couldn't get any more tongue-in-cheek sassy if I tried. Gee whiz, what shenanigans. I'm such a rascal.
sit back down where you belong
in the corner of my bar with your high heels on
sit back down on the couch where we
made love the first time and you said to me, there's
It's safe to say I'm completely spaced by the time the repeated ‘you and I's roll around, staring vaguely in the direction of the door and probably looking intimidating as fuckall while nailing those high notes flawlessly. Too bad. This isn't about them. This is about me. This is about me, and rightly so, for the first time in a long time.
got a whole lot of money but we still pay rent
cos you can't buy a house in heaven
there's only three men that i'm gon' serve my whole life
that's my daddy, colorado, and jesus christ
Two dead guys and a state. The rest I'm just in it with for the money. Or, in one stupid case, one case that doesn't ever want to see me again in all likelihood, the fact that he makes me happy, insanely so.
I open my eyes after the last breathy affirmation, snapping out of a place where I was smirking as the world burned around me and into one where a single old guy is applauding while staring fixedly at my chest.
"How much?" he says when I sneer at him.
I open my mouth, prepared to spit out a slightly adjusted rate, but then I think. Fucksake. What am I doing here? I like crossdressing and the occasional cock. I don't like old men and fucking up my entire life knowingly. I have a fucking restaurant. I'm twenty years old and I have my own goddamned restaurant. I've subconsciously been weaning myself off of nicotine just because it's bad to have in the kitchen. I've lost thirty pounds without even meaning to.
And... And there's one person that thinks the world of me, shitwreck that I am. Or am recovering from being.
"Go revive Billy Mays from the dead and we'll go from there," I mutter, getting up without pushing in my chair, ‘cause I'm a hardcore dude. I trot to the bathroom, ditch the heels, pull on my snazzy overlarge yellow sneakers, swing on my jacket over my tanktop, and gather up all my shit. I pause at my baggie of pot.
I leave it on the counter for the next poor son of a bitch.
I think I'm finally getting it. That doesn't have to be me. And I'm letting shit go that I don't have to. Even when I was a little genocidal retard, I didn't just let shit walk away.
I'm gonna go kick ass.
You ever have one of those days when you wake up and just know that everything is going to be okay, that you're untouchable, that no matter what the world throws at you, you'll come out on top?
I used to have a lot of those days, and slowly I'm coming back in touch with them.
Turns out after some sleep and a day off from work I was fine. I don't know what the hell I was thinking, bitching about this amazing thing that had happened to me, but I guess that's called taking shit for granted. The decreasing crowd was just the post-opening hubbub dying down, and soon enough Cardigan's is taking off. I'm a local success (of course I fucking am, says my ten-year-old side) and the profit margins are soon... well, existant. Enough for me to start thinking about getting out of my mom's house. Because honestly, I love my mom and all, but she's not exactly the greatest influence, and I'm twenty goddamn years old and I don't even know how to drive.
Honestly, how have you stood such a scummy narrative for this long? It's okay if you want to hit me, I do too. But don't actually do it, I'll kick your ass, hippy.
So, the thick curtains come up, my room stops stinking so bad of skunkweed and tears, and everything I really want to take with me goes into boxes, and the boxes go in the living room, and there's more fucking paperwork to do. I don't really mind, though, it's not nearly as novel-like as the Restaurant Saga. And besides, I'm apparently becoming an old man, because I am way too happy to be alive lately.
In fact, there's only one thing left that I would consider an area of concern. To be technical as fuck.
I'm sprawled out on my living room floor one Sunday in the winter, the sun streaming in merrily and casting a cheery glow over everything while simultaneously not doing a damn thing about the snow. I'm hidden amongst my forest of boxes, and I'm wrapping up the last of my lease, humming absentmindedly to my stereo, when the doorbell rings and the area of concern steps through my doorframe.
I look up at him, surprised he'd barge in like that, even though it was unlocked. Not much need for locks in this town. If anything wants you dead, you'll need a hell of a lot more defense than that. "Butters," I say finally, lifting a hand in a sort of half-wave.
"Hey, Eric," Butters says, shifting his weight from foot to foot in an incredibly Butters way. His eyes flick around apprehensively, and I can't really blame him. We're not on terrible terms, but it isn't what it was before, either. I can... I can live with it, obviously. There's a residual ache, but not enough to pull me back to the bar, at least not yet. Made my bed, gotta lie in it.
"So, what do you think of my interior design skills?" I snark, trying to break the silence.
Butters shrugs, pulling his hands out of his pockets and looking slightly less uncomfortable thanks to it. "It just looks like you're movin'. Nothin' to be ashamed of."
"Who says I'm ashamed?" I grumble, because if he's going to be standoffish and crash my buzz I'm going to be a douche right back. Because I'm just fucking full of good ideas Eric this is why he doesn't like you anymore. I exhale, count to five, and perk back up. "So what're you doing here? You need something? Jose giving customers a hard time again?"
"No, no, of course not. Jose's okay. If he starts anything again just remind him Mantequilla's watching." Butters smiles a secret smile, which, while I'm not sure what it's about, is nice to see, at least.
"So, um," I say after a few beats.
"So?" Butters looks at me expectantly.
I shrug, doing that weird hand wave that everybody does when they're waiting for someone to get their shit together. "Sooo... are you here for a reason, or..."
"Well, yeah, uh..." Butters looks at me like I should just know, mincing through my labyrinth of boxes and crouching in front of me, returning my shrug. "Don't you need any help with anything?"
I look at him incredulously. "Well, one, I'm nearly done getting out of here, as you can see. And two, I'm not useless. I did this all by myself. I am getting better, you know." My voice strikes a note between proud and slightly offended. Which, I guess is what I am, but probably isn't the best impression to give off.
It's not like I haven't completely fucked over any chance I ever might have had with him, anyway. Butters is looking at me with that same fucking face, and I assume he's just going to get up and walk out the door when he opens his mouth. "Why do you do this?"
What? "I, uh... Because I have a job now?"
"No, I mean this!" His expression finally changes into something hurt, something angry, something I used to try everything to see on his face, and here it finally is. After years and years, Butters is showing something that's short of angelic. "Why do you do this- this, this thing that you do? Can you just tell me if you don't want me around? I'm sick of your gosh darned mixed messages! I know what you think of me! I know that you know how I feel! Can't you just let me down already and stop givin' me hope?" Butters snaps his mouth shut abruptly after the last word like he's just spilled a government secret, but surprisingly makes no move to leave, looking at me with fury and fire... and hurt. All the hurt I've sensed but never seen.
I look at him, dumbfounded for my part. I'm not sure what he just said, but it sounded kind of like... No. No way. "I, um..." I stammer with the persuasive skills of George Lucas.
Butters' face gets pinched over his bones, ugly splotchy red marring his lily skin. "Oh, just forget it already," he grumbles, his eyes bright with tears. Holy shit, I've brought him to tears somehow. "I geddit. I'll jus' go." He swallows a tiny, frail sound that puts an unusual pang in my chest. Huh.
"No, wait," I say, eternally grateful that my mouth decided to do something halfway useful independent of my brain. Butters stops halfway to pushing himself up and out the door, his eyes beginning to brim over, and after all this time he's still willing to listen to what I have to say.
"C'mon, Butters," I say simply, smiling at him with nothing malicious because my own eyes are getting kind of stingy now and it's hard to keep up the front like this. "You of all people should know I don't forget who's a fag."
And this time it isn't me kissing him. It isn't even him kissing me, it's just that ancient gapful of pain and tension finally closing up, like a wound we finally found the right salve for. It's organic, sort of like this was meant to happen and just hasn't until now, and before I know it I've pulled him into my arms, holding his birdlike form against my chest, and he doesn't try to pull away. Butters Stotch is kissing me back and I think I must have died last night.
We spend a lot of time like that, respectively, because there's this silent understanding that we've been waiting a long time for this, which isn't such a revelation after all, I guess. It doesn't go beyond that, just kissing like seventh graders, getting a feel for each other, and eventually when we're tired Butters just looks up at me with big blue eyes, pink in his girlish cheeks, and smiles. I think he's going to cry for some reason, tell me that I'm actually dead and this is a dream, but he doesn't. He just smiles and curls against me and sighs a contented sigh.
And I know it seems like a copout, but hey, I don't know what's going to happen either. I don't know where we're headed. I don't know if my restaurant will sink or swim. I could marry this boy under a canopy of cherry trees in a new suit in a few months, or he could slam the door in my face for the last time ten years from now he could slam the door in my face for the last time ten years from now as the rain pours down overhead. I can hope for the best, and I can try my ass off. But in the end I don't know.
I used to be able to accept that thrilling unknown, but I'm learning again.
And you know what? It's the most exciting journey I'll ever take, and I'm looking forward to it. And maybe, just maybe, I can keep Butters by my side.
He carries an immense faith in me.
Now the trick is for me to remember how to do the same.
But for the first time in a long time, I can honestly tell you I think I'll be okay.
wanted to see what you knew about threesomes," Bebe says breathily, her hair framing one hazel eye, gathering herself up so her shoulders are around her face and she looks something like a tiger, an image which is somewhat aided by the fact that she has both of her talon-nailed hands folded firmly, catlike, right over my crotch.Something tells me this might actually be a really bad position to bargain from.
"Me?" I finally manage to squeak, because I wouldn't have exactly pictured myself as the first person to end up covered in bitches as overall fine as these, especially in this outfit.
"Why do you think we're this drunk?" Wendy mutters, in a moment of obscene clarity, before falling forward around Bebe's shoulders and giving me that same sultry smile, which is actually on the verge of terrifying for her because she's practically monochromatic, dark hair and eyes and perfect pale skin. "So whaddaya say, Cartman? Just like old times? We're willing to paaay," she dangles.
And, you know, this is the part where I should be the one who's jumping down their throats, but I just have this really awful feeling and I'm not sure why and it sucks. A clusterfuck of excuses pops up in my head, but considering the target audience (read: girls, reputed for their emotional acuity) I tone it down to the more believable, earnest ones. I'm not really into girls? True, but that shouldn't be a concern of mine, with the price what it is. I'm taking the night off? I don't think they're drunk enough not to notice the zebra-print skirt, thanks.
I toss out one more excuse and my brain latches onto it hard, making it super-descriptive in the blink of an eye, screaming that it's perfect and honest and not even a lie, and I don't even know why because it so totally is, a lie I mean:
I might care about someone we mutually know more than I'm willing to admit and you're making me really uncomfortable because you're reminding me of school, which reminds me of him, and this isn't what I want, goddamn it.
See? Where the fuck did that load of bullshit even come from?
I swallow, hard, and wonder why I was ever considering turning down a healthy sum of money and a romp with two lovely ladies such as these. I wrap my arm around Bebe's waist, tilt up Wendy's face with my other hand so I can pull the same thing on her that Bebe just did to me, and eventually end up with my face nestled between the two of them, whispering in a way hotter version of Bebe's own drunken mumbles, "For you two? Anything." And then I say, "Five hundred."
Fun fact: I have dreams that would make that sick fuck from the Human Centipede run for his mommy.
After I stagger home five hundred bucks richer (couldn't Wendy have spent that on a textbook or whatever college kids buy? Jesus) and fall into bed, I'm kinda happy for the reprieve, I mean, Wendy's a tight-ass little bitch but Bebe's definitely no slump. So I just totally pass out without even saying hi to my cat, and bam, there I am in dreamland, surrounded by your average array of studies in body horror, operating-room fuck-ups, all that fun stuff.
I'm not totally heartless. This shit used to scare the living daylights out of me when I was... maybe seven? But when you think about it, it's kind of cool. I'm not hurting anyone. What I can do here would land me in jail for the rest of my foreseeable existence in reality, and that's just the possible stuff. The impossible stuff would probably make me as much of a creative genius as Dali if anyone other than me seemed to be able to stomach it. Pro tip: don't try to tell Kyle's family about the dream you had last night about ripping open people's heads and forcing porcupines into their skulls until their brains poured out their nostrils. You won't get to finish dinner, even if it is shitty Jew food.
For one of my dreams, this one's relatively tame, flickering through a hundred scenes of mass genocide and alien parasites before finally dropping me on a pile of squishy corpses. Directly in front of me looms a brick wall that stretches up forever into a blood-red sky, thousands of other bodies chained up on it, but right in the middle of it all one's still moving.
And I just have to look at this one poor bastard to know that I hate him. I hate him and he's the root of all evil, or at least everything less than ideal that's happened to me, and I can't see his face or hear a word he's saying over the persistent, sourceless sound of screaming, but it doesn't matter, because he's guilty. I charge down my pile of bodies with a harpy screech, a rusty pair of scissors showing up out of nowhere in my hands, and basically just have a jousting match with his stomach.
I'm totally fucking up his shit, just going medieval all over the place, punishing him for all the times he's screwed up my plans because I just know it's his fault, and I should be loving every minute of this, this is how I blow off the worst kind of steam... so why am I just feeling worse and worse? It's just like with Bebe and Wendy: instead of filling in the empty feeling in my middle, it's almost like it's making it worse. Please don't tell me I caught the conscience.
I'm halfheartedly jamming half of this guy's femur into his ribcage and he just won't die, won't bleed, won't even scream, and finally I look up and all I see is blue before the dream shifts again.
I'm nine. I'm nine years old, I hate my friends and I don't fit myself right yet, but I don't give a fuck right now because I'm riding high. I'm the king of the goddamn world, because I am god in this little town, I literally just got away with murder and everyone knows for certain I am not to be fucked with. Scratch that, I'm the king of the goddamn universe. Eric the Awesome and Cool- yeah, I like the ring of that.
The paramedics just came in their little white ambulance with a blanket and a couple of needles. The blanket they wrapped around Scott Tenorman's shoulders, and when he couldn't move without bursting into a fresh round of tears they pricked him with one of the needles until he went all blank-faced and floppy. There's a half-empty bowl of chili in the middle of an empty fairground, I'm standing on top of the table where I triumphed over immense adversity at last, my mouth tastes like tears, and I'm singing at the top of my lungs, having my own private victory concert.
"YEAAAAAH, SO WHAT? I'M STILL A ROCK STAH, I GOT MAH ROCK MOVES, AND I DON'T NEEEED, YOUUUU--"
I'm totally twirling my jacket around my head and gyrating like a stupid spoiled whore and busting out some moves that definitely have nothing to do with my future career. I'm not even being ironic about this, I just feel so goddamn fabulous. And yeah, it's manly as fuck, which is why I wouldn't be doing it if I wasn't sure there was no one around for miles.
"Eric, isn't this, maybe, makin' a mountain outta- out of a- a molehill?" I make a totally normal sound and practically fall off my table, spinning around with my gathered momentum as soon as I regain my balance. And, of course, there's Butters, his blonde tuft still too short and his speech still stumbling, knocking his hands together and, in all likelihood, getting off on me being a total dancing pro, the creepy bastard.
"What! How the hell long have you been there, Butters! Everyone else went home already!" I bark in my nine-year-old rasp, pointing a stubby finger at him accusingly and hoping he doesn't notice the fact that I'm blushing my fucking face off.
Butters flinches but stands his ground. "I promise I wasn't tryin' to watch you or nothing! I just wanted to make sure you got home alright, I guess?" He scuffs a shoe in the dirty, patchy fairground grass, kicking at one of the empty chili bowls I blew away months of allowance on because this thing had to be more than just a little picnic for it to work.
I glare at him indignantly. "Butters, you know as well as I do that neither of us give one solitary fuck about the other." Which... is kind of hypocritical for me to say, because I'm the one who knows it isn't true, like, at all?
"Well, no, not really," Butters confesses, eyes flickering to his shoes almost in apology. "Look, I kinda-sorta wanted to talk to ya, Eric, if it's okay..." he continues in a way that makes me think for a second that I might not have a choice in the matter, but that's bullshit.
Sighing dramatically, I gather up my jacket and make a big show of pulling it back on. "What's there to talk about? I'm a winner and Scott Tenuhman is just a big fat pussy. Case closed."
"What you did was bad and you know it," Butters blurts in a sudden burst of clarity, then immediately looks regretful and resumes his staredown with the ground. Dude, like, what is he talking about, again? Fuck that shit. I hop down from my table, grunt with effort, and stomp over to him, folding my arms and taking an irritated posture.
"No, Butters," I say clearly, tapping him in the forehead for emphasis, which he squints uncomfortably at but doesn't dare to move away from. "It was super-kyew, and you're just lucky I invited you so you could watch."
"Eric, I'm sorry, but I just don't see how killin' a kid's parents an' feedin' them to him is all that cool!" he insists, finally shifting a bit away from my hand.
Okay, seriously? Talk about your ungrateful bastards. "Not kyew? Not kyew? I totally just kicked Tenuhman's ass, and you're saying that's not kyew? Okay, Butters, are you being seriously with me right now? Because if you are it's obvious you have some very deep-seated issues. I mean, duh, he scammed me out of my money! Real hard-earned money, Butters! I'd say he deserved whatever he got! Wouldn't you?" I give him a pointed look at that last bit.
Butters almost looks shocked, working his mouth like a dying fish for a second or two before finally saying incredulously, "Over fifteen dollars?"
"Oh my god, you assholes never listen! It wasn't fifteen, it was sixteen and change, Jesus Christ!" I yelp in frustration, throwing my hands in the air before balling them at my sides and shifting into a more aggressive stance. "Now am I right or not, Butters?!"
Baby blue eyes flick over me, and Butters toys with the buttonhole on one sleeve of his stupid little dress shirt and looks away, eyes hooded in nervousness. And it's like a punch right in my little nine-year-old heart, because he looks cute as fuck right now, and I kind of just want to hug him a little or maybe a lot and apologize for yelling, but that's a stupid faggy thought and why is that in my head? Finally, he looks up, and says quietly, "You're ruh-... right. Sorry. Go back to dancin' or whatever you like, I can get out all by myself." And then he turns on his heels and walks away.
But wouldn't you know it, I'm still standing there like I stepped in glue long after he's out of sight, an incredibly stupid look on my face because I can't seem to move. Because the look on his face, it just fucking hurts.
Flash and I'm at a different post-concert, one where I'm on an actual stage, and now I'm facedown on the stage in my best suit and crying my goddamn eyes out. And Butters is the one towering over me now, as he shows me his middle finger and emphatically states, "Fuck you, Eric."
Flash and I'm curled up in a little ball, clinging to the striped tail of my Coon costume, facing the wall of a cell I made for my enemies and am instead trapped in with a bucket of shit and the captured Professor Chaos, who's currently just finished listening to me bitch about how this is the least fair thing that's ever happened to anyone, how I had the Dark Lord at my command and the hippies on the brink of extinction and I lost it all, and he's just slowly shaking his head.
Flash through every time I failed or succeeded and how, no matter what, Butters would always seem to be there, always making that goddamn face. If he looked devastated or angry then maybe I could take it, take the fact that I was to blame for that, that I made him feel just like everyone else, but no, he always had to just look... disappointed. And it changed a little, maybe a little more horrified or a little more frustrated, but he always had these soft eyebrows and this little pout and the whole thing said, I thought you were better than this.
Let me tell you, I wouldn't have cared if anyone else thought there was good in me. But I did when it was him, because he believed it with all of his heart, and I did care, and I wished there was something to be proud of inside of me.
Because maybe, back then, I didn't hate him as much as I claimed.
Because maybe, I don't now, either.
Because maybe, I've kind of on some level unwillingly been in love with Leopold aka Butters fucking Stotch for the better part of a decade, and I'm the one I hate.
Which might explain why I wake up from the most non-threatening dream I've had since I can remember and discover I'm already sobbing.
Kyle Broflovski commented on Stan Marsh's Wall.
you know back when i was first figuring myself out i kind of didnt get the whole social stigma for cock on cock action, so i basically just kind of ran up to my mom and went 'hey mom! i think i really like stan!' then she went all 'ok kyle i have had it up to here with your bullshit, go to your room.' so then i got grounded because of you you bastard and the point still didnt get across. thank god. <3
Stan Marsh replied:
Uh thats one way to say happy anniversary I guess. <3
Eric Cartman replied:
god fucking damn it, you guys. i'm seriously going to beat the shit out of both of you. :l
Kyle Broflovski replied:
hey douchebag its our anniversary not your pity party day. dont like it then you shouldnt have friended us
Stan Marsh replied:
^^^^^
Eric Cartman replied:
i can't even handle how dumb you are.
Kenny McCormick replied:
Congrats, you guys. I'm glad you're happy even if I don't get it. And by the way, /someone's/ not taking being forever alone too well.
Eric Cartman replied:
;/ oh my god that is not even the point like at all, the idiot pile climbs higher.
Eric Cartman replied:
and fuck you, i'm getting laid like nightly. bet you can't say the same, you pompous kept-man bastard.
Stan Marsh replied:
Wow you guys thanks for ruining it.
Butters Stotch replied:
HAPPY ANNIVERSARY!!!! :)
Eric Cartman replied:
oh, motherfuck it.
Kenny McCormick replied:
Brb, dying.
Kenny McCormick replied:
Wait, I meant, dying as in dying of laughter, not like. Actual dying. You guys know what I meant.
My phone is just sitting on my bed, blaring meaningless Facebook conversations into nowhere. I guess if I'm going to wallow around in my own retardation, giving me access to a place where I can share it with the whole goddamn town probably isn't the best idea.
Today's schedule is shaping up to consist of the following: not leaving my room, except for leaving my room only to raid Mom's vodka stash, getting high as fuck, angrily fucking my pillow, and not being able to put myself at a safe distance away from crying my goddamn eyes out for more than an hour at most.
It's not like I've never had a day like this before. They happen every couple of months, when I just wake up and suddenly my eyes turn traitor. Yeah, that probably means my lifestyle is something less than ideal. No fucking way, who would have thought?
But this is the first time that I've actually really hardcore felt as bad as I look.
You know, it's my fault that Stan and Kyle are such happy little homosexuals together, too. I thought I could really fuck them up by giving Kyle a sharp shove right out of the closet, which was more likely than not me trying to put a damper on his mad persistent crush on his best friend so I could move in on him. Instead it turns out that Stan had his tendencies, too; meanwhile I successfully rendered myself the one awkwardly single friend, eventually evolving to the one awkwardly overall terrible not-friend.
How come every time I try to take control of my life I just make it worse?
Once, I bite down so hard on my fucking pillow that I actually rip the fucking fabric and I get fucking feathers all over my fucking room. Fraulein scoots out from under the bed, where I didn't actually know she was skulking for the past five hours but maybe she came in while I was staring at the ceiling and trying to regain my shit after a particularly manly bawl session or something; anyway, she pounces on them excitedly, and meanwhile there I am, slumped over an extremely violated pillow destined to never be used for resting one's head upon again, panting and gagging on my own emotions.
Tell me how fair this is: I can't get control over my feelings, but I can't even begin to identify them, either.
"Oh my god, Frau," I hear myself mumbling, "what am I doing?"
"Neh?" mews Fraulein, cocking her head and letting a white feather dangle out of her mouth.
I snap her up in my arms and bury my face in her back, because the only set of shoulders I have to cry on belongs to a confused tabby cat. Frau dangles out of my grasp, patiently letting me gasp out dry hacking faggy sobs into her fur, eventually wiggling in discomfort at her awkward position.
Turns out Fraulein doesn't really think whiskey is an acceptable apology for using her as a handkerchief and I just ended up wasting the last of my bottle pouring it out on the carpet like an asshole for her, but I can't seem to locate a fuck to give anymore. Nothing is lining up right. I'd like to say that that dream was just a stupid mishmash of memories, no big deal, but clearly it fucked me up to the point where I can't even put together a logical chain of thought. I mean, among other things, but there's always something that pushes you over the edge, and this time it was a million frowny frustratingly perfect Butterses.
If most days form a timeline, this day is the angry scribblings of a frustrated kindergartener.
I drift off with my head lolling against the wall and wake up to the sound of Just Dance with a major cramp in my neck.
Groaning, I find my feet, carefully keeping my head at its awkward angle because I already hurt enough without my neck starting in, too, and fumble for my phone on the bed. "Hello?" I gargle in my swamp-monster voice.
"Snookums, where are you?" Of course it's Mom, her voice like audible rainbows. Rainbows with diabetes.
"Why are you asking me that? You haven't been here in five days and I just drank all your booze." Yeah, my mom probably isn't about to freak out over that, but usually I wouldn't just drop that tidbit of information, proving how far gone my judgment is at this point.
"Oh, I was just hoping that maybe you'd found a job," Mom says wistfully. She's getting more and more passive-aggressive with every passing week, and I don't really think she has a right to talk, considering that her idea of 'tame' is pissing in a cup and making her customers drink it. Not to mention half the time they aren't customers since she isn't even doing it for the money. "Also, do you think you could pick up some groceries? The list is on the fridge. Now, the strawberry-flavored lube you can-"
"I know where to buy lube, Mom." Things you should not say to your mother: brought to you by a drunk, sexually confused twenty-year-old. Sponsored by Pabst Blue Ribbon.
"My little sweetiekins is growing up." No fucking shit, she actually says that. "Oh, and Eric, have you talked to your little friend Butters in the past couple of days? I heard something happened to him, and I'd ask Linda but- oh, him being a runaway and all, it's just too embarrassing."
On some level I can feel my forehead wrinkling into something between a scowl and a pained grimace. Yeah, something happened to him, he got his shit molested by a dude in a dress. I should be pissed off that he actually told anyone, but instead I kind of feel like I actually... well, deserve it. A little. That doesn't mean I have to tell anyone about my fuckups, however.
"Yeah," I mumble into my phone, sounding like I'm a million miles away even to myself. "He died." And then I hang up.
What day is it? Is it tomorrow? I think it might be. I don't know, I'm not being a depressed piece of shit anymore, though. No, I feel goooood. I'm a fucking winner. I'm not sure where all the money I swear I just made went, or where the hell I'm going to put all these empty Jack Daniels, but it doesn't matter anymore. Butters doesn't matter. Butters is dead. Who's Butters? What a stupid name. Must belong to a stupid asshole who only even stupider assholes could ever care about.
Wait, where is this? What did the bus driver just say? Oh, fuck, who cares. Everything happens for a reason, right? Whoa, I guess I'm over here now. I squint at the house number, which doesn't seem to want to cooperate, reading-wise. It's, like, 2001 or something, which is stupid, because that was like ten or twenty years ago or something. Stupid.
I ring the doorbell and lean against the railway of the stairs, but then the railway is actually a bush and it's actually on the other side and I almost fall into the hedgerow. Which is funny.
Someone groans unhappily from inside, someone reassures "Hold on, I'll get it." The door swings wide, and hey, look at that, it's my best fucking friend in the whole fucking world! Fucking sweet, dude.
Kyle pushes his way through the doorframe, a loose, easy smile lighting up his green eyes with a different sort of fire than usual. "Let's make this quick, I'm in the middle of-" he starts in a joking tone, but then he actually bothers to look at me, his eyebrows slowly sinking and growing closer together. "Cartman," he finally greets stiffly, folding his arms across his chest and purposefully looking away.
"Hey, Kyyyyle!" I say happily, considering and halfway getting around to hugging him but instead falling into an awkward sort of wave. "Looking sexy!"
Wait, I thought this was Stan's house, though. No. Wait. What?
His goofy spotty Jew nose wrinkles, like, he's smelling something bad, but he's not a dog, Kyle's silly. "Christ. Cartman, you're drunk. It's ten at night. I hate you. Go home." That's our Kyle, always joking around.
"Come on, Kyle, let me innnnn," I wheedle, putting on my best pleading expression. Kyle lets out a long sigh, looks like he's considering.
"Hmm... nope, I don't think you live here. Sorry." His hand runs along his neckline, fiddling with the auburn curls that hang around his face like he always does when he's even remotely nervous without his stupid hat on, and suddenly I see the starts of some very familiar angry reddish marks along his collarbones. Equally suddenly I know who the other person in there is. Goddamn it.
No, but I'm a nice guy, though. I feel good and stuff. "Come on, Kyle, you and Stan can make out or whatever you were doing, I won't get mad, promise!" I lift one of my pinkies, because pinky swears are cool.
Kyle flushes, but steels himself just as quickly and returns flatly, "Knowing you? Yes, actually, you will." He's edging back into the doorway now, like he's looking for an escape route in case things turn ugly which they won't, if he'll just cooperate with me.
Wow, though, what a fucking asshole. We know he's into me, right? He just doesn't want to admit it. "Riiiight, okay. But, you know what, Kyle? That's only because YOU'RE IGNORING ME!" I stomp my foot into the concrete angrily and hear a snap. But I'm wearing my sneakers, right? No, wait, the bright pink Barbie heels. That would explain why Kyle looks so small. He's, like, six feet tall? But I almost forgot- I'm God. So of course he's small. Yeah.
A voice emanates from somewhere behind Kyle, sounding sort of relaxed and annoyed at the same time like I walked in on some retarded family moment, like maybe what telemarketers drop into all the time. "Ky? What's taking so long?"
Kyle lets out a long sigh and tosses his words over his shoulder. "Nothing, just hang on a second longer, hon." Hon? Haha, what a couple of gaywads. He turns back to me with his eyes all hard like I'm the one who's being a prick. Kyle's a prick. A sexy prick. "Look, Cartman, have you ever even considered uncramming your head from your fat fucking ass? I mean, it's not like he'll ever tell anyone, but Stan has problems too, you cock. We never even see each other anymore, and it's really bothering him. He needs me right now, okay?" he growls lowly, the words flying out of him, probably because he doesn't want Stan to know he thinks he's a total nutjob.
I stare at him for a few moments like I can't process what's going on right now. Might have something to do with the fact that I can't process what's going on right now, come to think of it. All I know is, Kyle's trying to ignore me because he can't deal with his own feelings. For shame, I mean, who would even do a stupid thing like that? "Kyyyyle, why are you ignoring me?" I whine, because this situation merits whining. "Don't we have something?"
Kyle makes a face like he's gagging on something. I know he's embarrassed, but that's just rude. What if I took that the wrong way? "No," he says emphatically, his fingers digging white dents into his arms. "In case you haven't noticed, I kind of have a boyfriend. I'm not a sleazebag, like someone I know."
Who's he talking about now? Tell this faggot to stay on the topic, goddamn it. "Come on, Kyle. You're acting like Butters." Kyle raises an eyebrow at the name, probably because they're partners in crime or something, so I ignore it. "You guys are all these big total fairies and you can't even handle me. But don't you remember? You an' me have done stuff tooooo." I put my hands on my hips and look as exasperated as I can. Girls have all the best body language, too bad I don't have an excuse to use it more often.
Kyle steps forward with a scowl and slams the door behind him, his voice still a hurried growl like it's still open. He's so silly. And such a douche. Kyle jabs a finger into my chest, sounding like he's practiced this in front of a mirror. He must really love me. "Cartman, we have only 'done stuff'-" ensconced in weird air talons for some reason- "twice. Once, you took advantage of the fact that I was extremely drunk and disoriented, and basically just barged in on what was supposed to be me and Stan. I regret every minute of it and I could easily report you if I wanted. And as for the other, I only made out with you because, as you'll recall, I was a sexually frustrated and extremely confused ninth grader."
I find myself laughing at that. "Soooo... You came to me to help?" I waggle my eyebrows at him, like, you can't really throw your eyebrows at someone but I do it in his general vicinity. You know what I mean.
Kyle's making a face like he's about to hit something. He beats himself up over the dumbest things sometimes. "Do you remember, in your inebriated state, the part where you more or less forced me up against a wall, and the part immediately afterwards where I kicked you in the balls to get you to go away?" he says impatiently.
... Actually, I remember that part. It hurts just thinking about it. Kyle's got a fucking kick to him, especially with those faggy combat boots he used to wear because he was some sort of rebel. Couldn't walk right for the rest of the day. Kinda worth it, but still. I don't say anything.
He turns like he's ready to be done here, still talking with his face away from me. "I don't like you, Cartman. I never have, and I never will. Go home and sober up. And fix your goddamn makeup while you're at it."
Oh, shit is on. No one disses my makeup and gets away with it. I give the back of his stupid messy Jewfro the best glare I can muster. "You're a douchebag Jew, Kyle. I mean, damn, Jews are douchebags, but you're a douchebag even for a Jew."
"And you're a gender-confused closeted fatass," Kyle fires back flatly without turning.
"AY! I'm NONE of those!" I bark, gathering myself up indignantly. I don't care if I can hardly stand, I can still throw a punch if need be, and he's scraping the bottoms of my wells of patience.
His shoulders slump in a long exhale, and Kyle turns one last time, giving me the frankest look he has yet. Frankerest. Frankfurter. Whatever, he's talking and I should probably listen so I can get angrier. "Riiight. Which is why you're standing on my doorstep, wearing a miniskirt and high heels, and why you're bitching about how Butters won't pay attention to you and simultaneously trying to coerce me into being your bitch for a third time, and also why you weigh upwards of 200 pounds." Finally he shuts his big ugly whore mouth, and gives me a look like he's the one who's put upon here.
What a dick. "... Fuck you, Kahl, seriously." And yeah, his name comes out especially nasal even to me, but he hates it when I say his name like that so obviously-
"Whatever. Sorry, Stan, Cartman's drunk again..." The door slams right in my face, only reinforcing Kyle's dickery. Well, actually, he's always been a dick, and I've always felt this way about him. You know, the way where I want to jam a knife into his eye and then pin his hot ass to the ground.
Wait, where'd the bus go, again? I try to get off of Stan's porch and immediately almost fall on my ass, which is almost funny enough to wipe this scowl off my face. I take off my shoes, one of the heels folding in my hands, and start dragging my feet down the rough pavement of the darkened rich end of Bonanza Street. Uh. Where's my house again?
You know what, actually, I want to fuck up almost everyone's shit in every way possible. Kyle's just especially prevalent.
Actually, to be honest here, I just want to rip intestines and crush souls and basically just be a virgin-raping Norse god all day, every day. So what makes just him immune, why can't I even imagine truly enjoying hurting him, why can't I feel that way about-
Fuck. I'm not letting him get to me. Nor am I letting Kyle mess with my head, for that matter.
"I don't care about Butters," I say aloud. "You're wrong. I don't care about him." The streets don't answer, confirming that they don't care, either, and there's that. I know where I'm going now. I'm gonna get out of this goddamn sitcom family neighborhood and go home and smoke a blunt and laugh at my cat, and then I'm gonna sleep until tomorrow night and go out and fuck bitches and be an asshole, but first I gotta get home. So I sing as I go, stopping only to laugh every time I almost trip on a crack in the pavement or... well, nothing, sometimes. "I don't care, I don't care, I don't ca-aaaare..."
My phone is ringing. "Just dance, don't give a fuck, guess what, I don't care," I harmonize with Lady Gaga.
I dig it out of my tiny skirt pocket anyway. "Hello?"
"Eric?"
Shit. That's me. That's me, I'm Eric Cartman, I'm twenty years old, I'm wandering the streets of my town alone, it's too late for good people to leave their homes. I'm wearing women's clothing, I'm freezing, I'm stopped dead in my tracks under a streetlight, just asking to get my sweet ass bent over in a redneck's pickup truck. I'm overexaggeratedly acting like a drunken asshole in a misguided attempt to cope with the fact that most of the time I'm a sober asshole, recently failed to drink away my feelings, and I hurt so fucking much. And it's all my fault, and I know it. And I'm on the phone with Butters Stotch. And I care. I care about the call itself, but mostly, I care that it's him. I haven't cared about anything this much in forever.
Don't tell Kyle.
"Sup," I finally manage to say, coming out as a throaty whisper because, oh, whoops, where'd my voice go?
"Not really much, thanks for asking," he replies in a small voice, wrapped in static. Neither of us knows what to do then, I think. Butters finally ventures, "Do you really think I'm dead?"
"What? No. Dead people can't talk, Butters. Why would I think that?" No matter how much I say it, it would really fucking suck if you were dead.
"Well, um." I can almost see him shuffling nervously, probably curled up in a Hello Kitty snuggie and watching the tamest cop drama on the air in his shitty little apartment. "Your mom kinda called Linda in a big ol' tizzy and she said that you'd said I died..." he says weakly.
Linda? Who the fuck is this Linda everyone keeps mentioning- oh, right. His mom. They're on a first-name basis? Wow, has he really defected from his family that much? Are we talking about the same Butters here? "She was probably drunk again."
"Um, Eric, she said that you were the one that sounded pretty... Pretty not okay. Are you okay?" Butters asks, making a sudden turnaround between as accusing as he ever gets to overbearing concern.
"Yeah." No, I'm not. "What about you? Mom said something happened. Wasn't me, was it?" No. Wait. Why did I just say that? God damn it.
"No!" Butters blurts, so fast and defensive that it hurts something in my chest. "I mean, something did happen to me, but not to do with you." Of course not, why would it, seeing as he wants nothing to do with me. "I, I mean, my, my gramma died."
Holy shit, for real? Grammas dying is pretty lame for other people, I've been told. And seeing as I now have an unprecedented ability to give a fuck... "Dude," I say, in my best sympathetic voice. "I... I'm sorry."
"No, that's okay." Butters laughs nervously. "It was about time, and she was kind of a... well, a bitch, anyway... I guess. But it turns out there was a lot we didn't know 'bout Gramma."
"Like what?" God, I keep asking all these leading questions and sounding genuinely interested and I'm not calling him nearly enough names. And somehow I've managed to end up sitting on this bench and every time I try to get up my legs give out, but his voice is just so relaxing and relieving and I just want to sit here and forget about everything except him talking in my ear. This is downright embarrassing, how obvious I'm being. Welcome to heartache fucking hotel.
"My gramma, she used to be real pretty back in the old days. Why, she was so pretty, they put her up on the movie screen," Butters says dreamily, like a kid telling stories about his firefighter dad. I can't say I'm surprised that he's got a beauty queen for a grandmother. I mean, just look at the guy. "She was actually a real big deal, one of those spoiled ladies in the funny hats from a hundred years ago, made a whole awful lot of money."
"And?" I ask.
"Not a whole lot, after that. She got kinda old, I mean, you probably knew that because she was my gramma, but she never forgot about the spotlight and all the fame, and she was... She was awful mean, Eric." I can hear him swallow, like it pains him to speak out against his family like this, and I have this urge to tell him it's okay and to keep going and basically just bring him over to my suburban rebel not-particularly-juvenile-legalwise-but-still-pretty-damn-juvenile delinquency. But that would ruin him for me. It's the fact that he isn't what I am that makes him so... Butters-y. Buttery. Whatever.
"And you're telling me this why?" Yeah, now I'm getting back on the asshole ball again. Which probably isn't gonna make him like me, but fuck the police, at least I won't be a soppy asshole and make a fool of myself.
"Way back when we were still kids I told her she needed to come to an agreement with herself, because she kept being so mean to me, because she was so mad she couldn't do anything else but pick on her grandkids, and I knew she didn't have much longer to go," Butters continues over me, remarkably lucidly compared to his normal feeble raspy accented stammer. "And I guess she listened to me, and maybe even I helped her, 'cause I kind of inherited a whole lot of a Hollywood fortune."
Whispers of money? To a prostitute? God forbid. I sit up straight on my bench. "How much is a lot?"
He pauses. "Enough that I don't ever have to worry about paying the rent again. I guess," he trails off, his voice back to a nerve-wracked mumble.
And again with the guessing. Is nothing in his life certain? We're more similar than I thought. And, actually... Wait a minute. Is this some kind of payback again? Hasn't he done this before or something? Like I need to be made even more painfully aware of how great he is. Butters has reached a level of perfection only unlockable to my character through a cheat code I obviously don't know. "Great. And where the fuck, exactly, do I fit into this again?" I snap, flawlessly executing a total mood turnaround.
A car goes by and jabs me in the eye with its headlights. "I want to help you," Butters says.
"I don't need help." I try to vocalize my scowl.
"Damn it, Eric, don't you know how friends work or do you just not want me around that much?" he fires back at me without so much as a pause. And if I said the other silences were awkward, then fuck me, because boy was I wrong.If it was anyone else, any-fucking-one else, they'd probably call me an asshole and growl at me a little and then hang up, but he actually sounds anguished, like somehow, he actually... I don't know, gives a shit.
Butters does this sad sobby sort of hiss into the phone. "I'm sorry. I'm just gonna, uh-"
"I need help," I blurt, before I lose the will to do so.
There's a crash of static that I think might be him sighing. "Okay. Can you make it out to the Panera's in Colfax tomorrow at... maybe ten? For breakfast?"
"You eat soup for breakfast?" No, wait, shit. "I mean, yeah, sure. I can do that." What the actual fuck am I smiling about? Stop that, face.
I swear I can feel the radiance of the grin he pulls over the phone. "Great. That's great! Just get some sleep, okay? I don't want you fallin' asleep on me or nothing." Butters lets out this little Tinkerbell laugh. "See you tomorrow, Eric!"
Before I have enough time to come to a consensus as to whether or not it would be beyond the realm of creepy to beg him not to hang up, he already has. The night rushes back in, cold and dark, and I'm probably not going to see another human being until twelve hours from now. And suddenly I remember that I can't drive.
Okay, so, I'm pretty sure that I might have just been relieved of an inordinate amount of money in my headachey sleep-deprived state by a phone-order taxi dude, but hey, I made it to Panera Bread, and now I get to go on something that's probably going to end up being nothing short of a one-sided date. Egad. If that isn't moving up in the world, I don't know what is.
Seriously, though. Do you have any idea how much effort it took to find a shirt without stains and comb my hair this morning? If this doesn't go over without a hitch I want my money back, because this stupid 'life' game sucks. It isn't even fair.
As soon as I swing open the glass door to the restaurant I get my ass double-teamed by a barrage of midmorning chatter and the scent of cooking onions. I flinch and start maneuvering through the well-dressed throng, and oh, of course, the only open table is right next to an enormous fucking window.
I close my eyes against the irritated swarm of light hovering around my head and collapse in a pile of rumpled unseasonable clothing on the table, a single island of don't-give-a-fuck in a sea of good-fucking-morning. And I'm pretty sure I fall asleep a little.
"Oh, wow, what are you doing way over here?" the world's most cheerful voice says right in my ear. I choke on air and whip upwards, suddenly very much awake, and crane around in search of the intruder and-
... Oh.
I've gotten so used to seeing him as a she, I forgot how much more beautiful he is in his own skin.
He's still got that weird-ass haircut, that hasn't changed in two years or ten- an effortless mop of long blonde locks on top, cropped short underneath- and his ridiculously blue eyes seem even huger without the liner. He's probably the only person I know who could execute the skinny jeans he's wearing, and he's got one corner of his pinstriped button-down shirt tucked into his pants, which, knowing him, is probably less of a fashion statement than it is an honest mistake.
As I take in his appearance, his face splits into the warmest smile Colorado's ever seen. "Hi," Butters says brightly.
And me, I keep staring like an asshole, and eventually wave one of my hands in something that may have seemed like an acceptable greeting if you weren't looking too hard.
Butters slides into the seat opposite me, sets one of those little vibrating order pagers on the table, and whips out a weird clusterfuck of papers from under his arm I'd been too distracted to notice. "How long have you been here?"
Hell if I know, I think I passed out on the table. "Uh, I don't know, maybe ten minutes?"
"Huh, I've been here since nine-thirty. Gee, Eric, you must've walked right past me!" Butters laughs completely blamelessly. It occurs to me that I forgot to check and see if he was actually already here. Stupid.
"Why'd you get here so early?" I say in lieu of any sort of apology, like the tactful bastard I am. Butters shrugs, appearing to legitimately consider the question.
"Well, jeez, I guess I don't really know! There's something sorta comforting about making sure you're there when you need to be," he answers uncertainly, and I get the feeling the being-there bit doesn't just apply to meetings.
"You should give fashionably late a try," I counter in a no doubt completely graceful attempt to change the subject.
"Better late than never," Butters beams. Not pointing fingers at me or my ways of life. Who the fuck gave him the right to be so perfect?
The pager makes its freaky fart noise and I yelp, wheeling a bit in my seat before realizing that no, it is not, in fact, a killer bee coming to take advantage of my groggy state. Butters doesn't seem to notice. "Oh, that'd be the drinks! I'll be right back."
"Whatever, dude," I say sleepily.
Butters darts off into the morning crowd, blending seamlessly, and suddenly I realize how very out-of-place I am here. This is his turf, we're in his territory, crammed with people who smell like laundry detergent and brush their teeth three times a day. Me, I think my shirt is fermented, and I'm pretty sure at this point I naturally smell like a bar.
I mean, fuck you, that's a good smell, but you get my point.
Anyway, if this was anyone else I'd be suspicious, but as I may have mentioned once or twice in my life, this is Butters, and even if I'd like to say he's too stupid to set me up, he really isn't. On some level, at least, he likes me, even if it's only on the level of vague friendliness, as if he has any other outward interaction mode. Funny- you'd think that I'd be glad with him liking me at all, but no, I'm nitpicking about how he likes me the wrong fucking way. Four for you, Cartman, that's not a dick move at all, and there's no way you're setting your expectations way too goddamn high. Kyle clearly calls you selfish for no fucking reason at all. I can't even believe I used to buy my own garbage. Still act like I do, but hey, gotta keep up appearances...
"Eric? Are you okay?" Butters asks tentatively, snapping me back into the outside world. He's looking at me apprehensively, holding out a steaming paper coffee cup of something by the insulatory grip, clearly meant for me. I swipe it out of his hands in overcompensation and choke down the top two inches as soon as is humanly possible, which is not actually a good idea, because I end up doing an actual fucking spit take that is at least fifty percent whipped cream.
"Butters, what the fuck!" I warble screechily, trying to wipe my coffee-covered face with my coffee-covered hand in a display of prime efficiency. "Did you just put sugar in a cup and heat it?!"
Butters looks remarkably unperturbed, but responds all the same. "Oh, Eric, I'm sorry you don't like your coffee! I just kinda reckoned you liked sugary drinks... You know." I guess he's talking about back before he bailed on our little competition, back when he used to fetch all my embarrassingly girly drinks for me. And, okay, appletinis are fucking delicious, but god damn it, coffee is supposed to taste like the milk of a gorilla with a thyroid problem.
"No, you asshole, can't you even take your coffee like a man?" I grumble sulkily. Butters' smile shrinks by a couple of teeth, and the hand drifting towards the napkin holder falls like a shot goose. Let's recap: until I outright called him an asshole, he was still going to get me napkins, and I bet he would have wiped my face like a fucking nanny if I had let him. Although I think I've drowned in my narrative pity long enough, small wonder that I constantly get all caught up in his presence. Butters is a better mom than my mom. I'm not even going to explore the possibility of some sort of Oedipus complex going on here, okay.
After a while of slurping and looking as offended as is humanly possible with the limits of facial muscles being what they are, it turns out that upside-down caramel macchiato whatthefuck isn't actually that bad. I try to look apologetic, but I think it may have looked as if I was battling a sneeze or something, because Butters, in turn, does this weird thing between a smile and ducking and covering.
"So what, are you adopting a Chinese baby?" I say.
"What?" Butters asks.
"You know, you're supposed to adopt Chinese babies if you're flaming gay and rich. Have a little compassion, Butters, Jesus Christ." I raise an eyebrow at his manilla folder.
Thankfully he gets the joke and I don't further his state of offense, otherwise I think I might have to quit reality. Butters giggles- actually giggles- like all is forgiven, just like that. "Ahaha, no, Eric. This..." He holds the folder up, Lion King-style, which is funny because it's a fucking office supply filled with shabby-looking papers, and I'm the only person who gives a shit here. Like... You know what, it's funny to me, fuck off. "This is what I asked you here to take a peek at!"
I glance at a stray newspaper clipping. It's a personal ad for some Thai masseuse. "So what's this amazing revelation?" I say suspiciously. I can't say I was necessarily expecting that, to say the least.
Butters seems wholly unperturbed. "I'm telling you, Eric, I wanna, well, I wanna help you make all those dreams of yours you told me about come true!"
Oh, Jesus. "Butters," I interject hastily. "I don't think this is really the place-"
"Just look!" Butters throws the folder open on the table gleefully, and for a second I'm about to just bail the fuck out of there before Butters embarrasses both of us, but thankfully there are no Playboy pullouts contained within its cardstock. Suddenly, the choppy side view makes sense- Butters has scrapbooked a folder. He appears to have utilized every square inch of available space with carefully trimmed cutouts from newspapers and all manner of advertisements. They all seem to have something to do with realty.
I whistle appreciatively, thumbing at the slight dogears on a miniature pamphlet, attached with what looks like teal glitter glue. "Nice art project. Don't see what it has to do with me, though."
Butters flushes happily. "Oh, that, oh, I was just trying to make it look all nice an' presentable, it's nothing special..." He knocks his hands together unconsciously. "Ya know you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, though, Eric. Take a look."
I do. They're noted in different colors of gel pens, which actually doesn't seem completely gay, because Butters clearly meant them to be pretty, and they are, in a girly way. They're all ads for burnt-out (sometimes literally) ex-establishments, bland clean-cut professional contrasts to Butters' loopy handwritten remarks.
+ cheap as spit, - fire damage!!! can't have it all, i guess.
looks good but the floorboards are all mud and there's rats in the walls!! i don't think this salesman was being very straightforward when he wrote this ad. :( i sure wouldn't eat no food from here!!
And then, next to an appealing color photo circled with three different colors of ink:
PERFECT!!!!!! i sure hope eric agrees!!!
I can feel the realization creeping over me, probably because it brings with it in its wake one of my famously, stupidly blatant blushes. And I could fight that shit, but oh my god: Butters literally went through what looks like every building on the market for fifty miles and considered how suitable they'd be for my stupid half-formed dreams of haut cuisine, and labeled them all with perfect little exclamation-littered Buttersisms, focused on...
"You did this for me," I say faintly.
Butters shuffles, smiling humbly and peering out from between two shaggy locks of his mop. "Well, shucks... I guess."
Suddenly, for whatever obscure reason, my chest feels like it's going to explode. I cough, because I feel like doing something uncomfortably close to squealing like a fat little fucking pig.
"See, Eric, to be honest, havin' money and all is k-kinda... um, boring!" Butters looks like he's kind of surprised at what his mouth is doing, which I thought was something that only happens to me. "Before I had to work hard, and do things I didn't really want to, and things have never been so easy for me... I mean, it's... nice, and I hate to sound ungrateful, but I just don't know what to with myself."
Part of me wants to smack him for being such a spoiled little brat already, but objectively speaking, I know that he really doesn't know how to function without constantly keeping one eye on his ass. Butters is the kind of person who makes it almost impossible to see inside his head, but he's always had a lot of shit going on. School, friends, even shit as simple as clothes- he worried almost as much as Tweek if you knew what to look for, and all of that was because of those fucking parents. Having them loom over him for twenty years- yeah, actually, I can't blame him for being clueless.
Still, I cock an eyebrow, doing an excellent job of looking the gift horse in the mouth. "So you want me around to fuck things up."
"Yes!" Butters blurts, then just as quickly switches to "No, wait, that wasn't right. No! I mean..." He trails off weakly, looking pathetic. "I just wanted to help you, Eric... I like helping people, okay? And I care about you, you know."
"I know," I parrot, because I do, but it's not enough. I want his time and his life and his gel pens and I want him to wear my fishnets, not necessarily in that order, but right now I have a folder, and I'm going to have to learn to appreciate that, god damn it. "But, let me get this straight for a second here, B-Butts, m'kay?" I lean back in my seat and fold my arms over my chest. "You're running around looking at buildings for something I mentioned like twice when I was stoned out of my fucking mind, without even asking first?"
Belatedly, I realize I haven't called him that in literal years.
Butters wilts. "Well, I... I guess it sounds mighty silly when you put it like that..."
"Butters," I say clearly, and he looks up again. I pause seriously and give him a serious look, so as to inject some seriousness into the situation. Seriously. "Thank you. This is... some pretty dope shit right here," I add lamely, because things were getting too socially acceptable for poor little Eric to handle.
I seriously wonder how he's been able to handle me emotionally jerking him around for the past fifteen minutes or whatever, but Butters perks instantly, for the umpteenth time. "It makes me so happy to hear you say that, Eric!" He actually says things like that. Goddamn. "I was thinking, I mean, if you still wanted to, and if you were okay with it, we could... maybe... do one of those business partnership... thingies?" he says uncertainly, drawing circles with his pointer finger in his opposite palm.
Okay, this is the part where I have to break the happy little rainbow we have going on here. "Butters, I am poor as shit. I think Kenny might actually have me beat at this point."
"But that doesn't matter!" Butters says insistently, wide-eyed. "Eric, I don't want this much money. I don't like it. I tried charities, but Gramma said I wasn't supposed to, because they were all baby-killers and terrorist-supporters. It was all right there, in her will."
"What even?"
"I mean, it's not like I'm just throwing it at you, right?" Butters forges on obliviously, looking like he's asking himself for permission as much as he is me. "You've got a lot of work to do, too, right, I mean, with all those recipes and being head chef and all of that." The words 'head chef' suddenly sound like an audible hand job, I note, attentions considerably more piqued. "And you're probably gonna have to go through all the paperwork to get the darn thing started in the first place, because, I'd do it for you, and I think I can still help, but I think you have to if it's your business..."
My business. Jesus Christ. Butters is literally making life worth living in the course of one conversation. "D... Dude," I stammer, feeling rather out of my element. "I was too drunk to go to our high school graduation. I've spent the past two years as a fucking hooker. I'm not even old enough to buy a gun, and the last time we talked I-" I swallow, hard, around the apparent boner my throat decided to pop. "Why are you doing this to me?" I finally manage, like he stabbed me or something.
Butters smiles gently, his already normally soft eyes practically melting. "Oh, Eric, I told you." Like it's the most obvious thing in the world. He cares about me.
Of course, I'm basically this big drunkard douche who needs to be carted around and looked after so I don't play in traffic or something, and he's dragging my ass out of poverty right now like some kind of weird religious obligation-type thing, but still, it's something, Cartman, stop taking shit for granted, Cartman, Christ almighty.
I squint. "Hypothetically?" I'm not sure whether I'm talking about his offer or his caring.
"Not if you want it not to be." It sounds like he doesn't either.
I look suspiciously from him to the folder to him, looking for something- anything- to fuck everything up, some fatal flaw in this actual miracle. But even if there was, what have I got to lose? "Okay," I relinquish.
"Okay?" Butters bleats excitedly, his eyes widening in an unduly wide smile.
"Okay," I repeat. "Partners and shit. All that." I extend a hand, deciding against spitting in it. Butters takes it gleefully, and just then the pager screeches again.
After I apologize for the second time this year for possibly spraining his wrist, Butters returns with what's either the cheesiest bread or the breadiest cheese I've ever seen. I munch on my croissant-y... thing... and basically just try to stay cool while Butters rambles about how great our lives are going to be now that we're all buddy-buddy, and not, for example, sweep everything off the table and leap over it and kiss him and not even be angry about it.
One of the few things I can remember getting through the blissful haze when we part ways is him saying "So you can start coming over whenever it's convenient for you so we can get started, okay?"
It's only later that evening with a fistful of dick in both hands that I realize just how fucked I could potentially be, and it has nothing to do with my current circumstances.
I don't know at what point in my life I reached the shaven neckbeard stage, but it strikes me pretty clearly that that is, in fact, an accurate descriptor for me, as I'm wiping my hands on my jacket and stepping off a bus and feeling like a newborn baby- what is this thing called fresh air? Why are there cotton balls in the sky? Aren't I going to get sunburn out in broad daylight like this?
I do not, in fact, get sunburn, but I'm feeling a little uncomfortably well-insulated as I find my way to the address Butters gave me. It's a weird fucking place, perched on the outskirts of Denver amongst the mediocre tourist shops, one of those goddamned hippy buildings that's all browny-orange wood on the outside with tons of windows that they claim is environmentally friendly, but I think that wood is like, redwood, or some shit, so if they're building apartments of a moderate size out of it how nice to the planet can it be?
In other words, it suits him perfectly.
On the inside it smells like new coats of paint and the floor is unscuffed, and for a moment I panic- holy shit, did he build this place on his own dime?- but a plaquard proclaims its sponsorship by some Latin author with a weird metaphor for a name, so there goes that theory. Positive: there's only 5 stories, this is no World Trade Center. Negative: the hippies didn't see the benefits of an elevator based on that fact alone. Double negative (and fuck grammar): for all his bitching, Butters still didn't see the irony of a rich heir living in a penthouse apartment. So yeah, here be a bunch of hypocritical douches.
I'm feeling awfully uncomfortable about all the plate glass surrounding the staircase by the time I'm up all those fucking stairs. I'll say one thing (hahaha irony) in Butters' favor- his door isn't a teenage girl slumber party do not disturb bedazzled monstrosity, as I had somehow managed to preconceive. In fact, it has a nice bronze little plaque, with the room number (really? Really. 10 rooms in the building and they feel they need a room number. Okay.) and 'B. Stotch.'
I stare at his name for a little while. I dunno, I think I'm thinking about how it says B and not L. Does anyone even remember his real name? Because I do. I never understood why he wouldn't use it, actually. We all had names like Kenneth and Stanley, and he had fucking Leopold. It's one of those words that feels good on your tongue- shut up, fucker, you know I'm right- and it sounds like you're a goddamned prince when you introduce yourself. And he glommed onto the punny nickname one of us awarded him when the worst curses we knew were things like 'butt' and 'poop.' You know, a million years ago.
"It's unlocked! You can come in!" the door says cheerfully. No, wait, fuck, doors can't talk. Was I that loud coming up the stairs? Or can he just hear me breathing heavily and staring at his door like a well-adjusted citizen of society?
I barge through the door perhaps a little too intensely. Like, I should have screamed something along the lines of 'the party's here, fuckers' and burst into a frat party but instead I'm doing this weird pained grimace like someone just ran over my toes, and the house looks like it belongs on the cover of Martha Stewart or something holy shit what this is awesome it smells like trees. Butters isn't waiting on the other side of the door in nothing but a candy thong, so I take some time to get my bearings. Living room, okay. The floor is made of those weird spun grass mats, kind of like those Japanese things, so it feels kind of vaguely squishy and inviting. The walls and décor are all various bright autumny shades, and the only thing in the room that seems remotely frivolous is the flatscreen against the wall. And who wouldn't buy a flatscreen with an inheritance? Really. I mean, really.
"I'm in here!" Butters calls again, sounding content and vaguely lightheaded. I swivel towards the sound like a cat after a can opener, and boom, there's this big-ass doorway right across from me and a clear view of Butters sitting at a two-seater café table, poring over some papers. How I missed that I will legitimately never know.
I creep into his kitchen like the door is booby-trapped. Honestly, look at this from his perspective- I'm this big unemployed blob who hasn't been seen outside of his house in daylight since graduation, proving my own worthlessness by acting like a perfectly friendly environment is about to go all Indiana Jones temple of doom. For his part, Butters takes it in stride, looking up from his paperwork to smile a teeth-whitener-strip commercial smile and wave. "Make yourself at home!"he instructs cheerfully, gesturing at the seat opposite him. I perch in it with all of the same suspicion I've for some reason had since arriving and fold my arms over my chest, squinting at him and tucking my feet under the chair.
Yeah, my house manners are fucking awesome.
"Was the drive over okay?" Butters asks, looking back down at his papers. I glance at them askance. They look enormously legal.
"I don't drive," I say, a bit on the defensive side. Or, you know, a lot.
"Oh, well, that's okay, I'm not a big fan myself," he says without looking up- he has this way of making small talk while multitasking and still making it seem like he cares. I shift in my seat and rest my chin in my hand. On top of it all, I've got my elbows on the table. Shame on me.
There we sit, Butters humming softly as he scribbles in loopy handwriting, me trying to decide whether or not fidgeting is more of a tell than sitting stock still.
"So, uh," I finally speak up. "Am I just over here to supervise you or something? Because you're the older one, dumbass. Soooo..." Goddammit. Let's fucking insult him some more. I'm a strategic master.
"Oh, jeez, sorry, Eric!" he replies without batting an eye. "I guess I got a l'il bit distracted, huh? Hold on a sec." He gets up, pushes in his seat in what I'm guessing is a reflex, and trots off to a door behind him. Jesus, how big is this place? Lucky son of a bi- biscuit. Gotta break that habit.
When he returns, he's holding a thick sheaf of papers held together by one of those big black clips you can use to pinch other people's bingo wings and make them freak out really bad. Except his is powder blue, his favorite color, the kind half the shirts he owns must be at the least. He hands it to me. It's at least as big as the one he's holding. I stare.
"How many of these do you have?"
"Oh, four or five," Butters says vaguely, flapping his hands at an invisible moth.
"Four or five! Jesus, we're opening a fucking restaurant, not building a nuclear reactor," I snarl at the papers. Not at him. I can be taught after all.
"Well, um." Butters fidgets. "There's all those health an' safety regulations you've gotta go through, an' then there's the building itself, an' the refurnishing, on account of the last people took all their stuff with them. And... There's something else."
I look up at him expectantly. Butters forges onwards. "I, um... I had to tell who I was getting the papers for when I went down to the town hall, and they ran a check on your name."
Oh jesus.
"Now, Eric, I ain't blaming you for nothing, and I know this was all a long time ago, but there was that whole hamburger thing-"
"That was once! One time! And they were good!"
"-and that time with KFC-"
"That was that Sanders asshat!"
"-and they think you might have AIDS-"
"Are they fucking retarded?!"
"-and the disappearance of the Tenormans-"
"I was a minor and that was provoked!"
"-and also suspicion of circumventing laws regarding prostitution," Butters says quietly. I gape at him, clutching the papers so hard my hands are sweating a little.
"What the fuck!" I finally cry. "If they have so many issues with me why are they letting me do this at all?" I knew this was too good to be true. Any second now, that douche with the mullet is going to jump out with a camera and tell me how punked I got, and Butters is going to laugh and laugh and cut my balls off for good measure.
Butters shifts on his feet, playing with the edge of his shirt. "Maybe they think you deserve a chance, too," he says finally, cocking his head and furrowing his eyebrows. I stare at him, then look back at the papers.
BUSINESS LICENSE APPLICATION (COUNTY OF DENVER)
"Shit," I grumble, crumbling fast.
I won't get into the nitty-gritty of what the rest of the day entails- partially because it's boring as fuck, partially because I couldn't tell you what I was doing if I tried. Countless times I find myself staring slack-jawed at a chunk of text while Butters is merrily scratching away behind me, flying through forms like they're asking him things like 'what's 2+2?' Did he get the beginner's edition? I don't speak legalese.
So that's all fine and well, but then that's kind of the way the next month, or something, turns out to be like. Turns out in the real world you have to actually keep track of time, and at some point the month digit I'm putting on papers changes. The good days are ones where I have to add things to our starter menu, and I spend the day mixing and tasting and baking and basically making use of Butters' Home and Garden poster child kitchen. The bad ones are when we have to spend hours handing off a line to some brainless moron in the heart of Denver who has no fucking clue what's going on, but has a PhD. in business or something that gives him the right to talk at us like he's the one paying our bills, all the while scribbling down info for hours. No, I mean actual hours, switched to different departments, possibly even buildings. I think we might have actually talked to the mayor at some point. Butters does as much as he can, and admittedly is much better-tempered about it than I, giving me plenty of time to throw the phone on his couch and storm off to scream at the kitchen walls, but usually they need to talk to me for one reason or another.
I don't understand why they need to get it straight from the horse's mouth. Butters seems to be taking the role of all things PR-related along with sponsorship. I'm content to sit behind the scenes and crank out culinary masterpieces. Something I knew all along is confirmed- that I cook better than college fuckers- but as it turns out, you don't actually need a degree if you're your own head chef. All you need is the talent to keep people interested, and a minimum standard of hygiene- or the money to buy off the health inspector. Yeah, I wouldn't trust Colorado politics if I were you, either.
Honestly, though, the only things that really keep the days differentiated are the different little quirks I pick up about Butters. I keep expecting this level of contact to bring my inner asshole out in full force, the way it always was back in the idyllic land of elementary school, but now there's no other fuckers to have to put up a front for. I don't know, when I was around the others, I always found myself getting a lot more fed up a lot faster, but there were times- like those sleepovers, heinous and awesome as they might have been, or even that one time when my shithead friends ignored me for a while- when it was just the two of us, and things were calm and actually pretty nice, and I think that was what finally made a dent on me. And I hate to say it, but I think I'm slowing down in my old age. Either that or the weird feeling in my chest is a very real parasitic tumor, and I'm fucked.
I want to be mad at him for being such a homebody, but I can't. He just does it so damn well. He usually only really leaves for a walk after lunch, often bringing back various flora from the fading summer to swap out of a few artsy glass vases he tucks in various corners to 'liven up the place' (like it needs it), groceries and, by extension, any supplies I need for my experiments, and an art class he takes at the community college on Thursdays. We're a couple of veteran hookers who never went to school and now we're starting a business together. Oh, the juiciness of the gossip.
Speaking of art, though, he's really fucking good. I mean, seriously, I knew that every day when he starts getting a little fried he heads out to his living room to sketch and play around with paints, which is probably more productive than what I do, which is vent, loudly. But when the walls of the living room start filling up with bright, loose watercolors of flowers and cityscapes, it takes me an embarrassingly long time to notice the squiggly teal signature in the bottom corner- B. Stotch. I know he spends all his time here, but even so soon I'm wondering how he finds enough time in the day for all the stuff he manages to pull off.
Another thing I notice is his seemingly near-addiction to the internet. Which is surprising to me, because he never really seemed the type. Every day he takes his lunch break at the same time in the living room and if I go to get his help for something, or on days I don't arrive until the afternoon due to shit like hangovers or soreness, he's always on the couch with his laptop (faggy Mac bullshit), headphones in, and the way he flushes and smiles makes me pretty sure that our Butters is watching porn. Until I manage to see over his shoulder when he's particularly focused on the screen, and catch a flash of cartoon horses.
Okay, our school fell victim pretty hardcore to the brony craze a few years ago, probably yet another sign that we were all straight as fuck, but we all dropped it junior year out of some sort of unwritten collective embarrassment, the entirety of which Stan of course thought was funny as hell, still being in his Wendy throes of faked straightness. It doesn't surprise me that Butters still watches it though, on YouTube, at the same time as its old time slot, and that would be something to laugh at if I couldn't remember the names of ponies like Berry Punch and Sea Swirl. Fucking. Sea. Swirl. Butters panics when he first catches me over his shoulder, but we kind of come to another agreement without saying anything, and he stops using his headphones, piping songs through the kitchen I'm not as embarrassed as I should be that I still know the words to.
Speaking of music, he has... interesting tastes. He likes to play music when we're working through a particularly solid clusterfuck of paperwork. Not shit like I Love The Nightlife, thank god, I got enough of those retarded 'gay culture anthems!' at Kirby's. I'm talking shit no one in the fucking state listens to except him, because I've sure never heard it in my goddamned life. Some of it's actually pretty good, but when I ask Butters what he's playing, he cheerily replies "Mika!" or "Nevershoutnever!" You know, really helpful and informative shit. Thanks for that clarification, Butters. Everything makes sense now.
Seriously, one day he shows me a music video on our downtime to... something or other that he's played. I recognize the tune, vaguely, but I guess it's some sort of live acoustic version, because the camera is handheld and shitty as all getout. Bunch of fuckers that think they're robots, or something, painted up all metal-y and way too goddamned talkative. Sure, when they actually start playing, they're... alright. Kind of corny. I can see why he'd like it, though, especially because there's this one tiny dude, flamboyant as fuck, with overalls. He's got the same exact build as Butters, I swear, but he's kind of annoying. Which is weird, because from what little I see, they're practically the same person.
What's fucking wrong with me? What demon is this to captivate me so to the point of favoritism?
Cute motherfucker, that's what.
We find a middle ground on the music front in our Lady, of course. Because if you don't like Lady Gaga then fuck you too. It progresses from us vaguely acknowledging the other's foot-bobbing to humming tiny fragments of harmonies to prancing around the kitchen like the fairies we kind of are, singing like teenage girls at a sleepover, tunelessly, idiodically, and completely ecstatically. And it's fun, okay? It's really fun, letting my dumbass side out with someone I know I can trust.
Maybe I trust him a little too much, actually. The day we get the last form dotted and crossed, Butters cranks up the surround sound through the whole apartment, which I'm sure pleases the neighbors greatly. It's like a tiny, dorky dance party, especially with the delicious crunchy beat of Judas shaking the plates, me belting every word and busting out some moves I may or may not have learned in my previous line of work and Butters smiling so wide I think his face might split, even when I bump him with my hips (for fun, asshole), which has a little bit more of an effect than I intended with his twiggy frame what it is. I grab him by the hand on the last chord, spinning him against my chest, so we're standing a little too close to be friendly as Lady Gaga's proclamation of her own name fades away. I realize I'm panting, but I don't seem to be able to stop doing that, or staring into his soul-devouring baby blues.
Butters smiles. Uncomfortably. "So, um... See you next week to start opening the place up, right?"
"Right," I mumble, stepping backwards and shuffling noncommittally on my feet. And then I bolt for the door, because jesus. That was way too fucking close. And yet it wasn't close enough.
I think I forgot to mention that the building used to house one of the most important restaurants in the whole world: Bennigan's.
It would certainly explain Butters' unusual predilection towards the blown-out husk, anyway. And I'll be honest, the place is in good shape. Bare as a newborn's ass, sure, but otherwise pretty sweet. It's amazing how fast a couple of good contractors can rip up a floor and rig a new lighting system, really. Sure isn't anything I'd ever sign up for.
At first I'm not sure what direction I want to go with the décor, until one of the working men politely informs me that my second concept looks like a faggy ripoff of Olive Garden, which is a five minute drive away and has considerably more ground on which to stand. So my new second home is a black-and-white-tiled, silver-trimmed, red-leather masterpiece of gleaming lights, good food, and a 50s atmosphere without the bullshit music.
It's actually amazing, the change we make in that place in a matter of days. Turns out the crucial ingredient to starting a restaurant is elbow grease, as corny as that sounds. It kind of brings a tear to my eye, to be honest. The last thing we put up before opening night is the sign, just the morning before- it's sort of a symbolic thing. It's getting colder again, and Butters is bundled up in a girly jacket and a scarf, a bittersweet look on his face as they bolt my sign in place to his bankrupt haven.
CARDIGAN'S.
Yes, it's a pun.
"Hey," I say, because I'm feeling kind of jelly-legged, entirely not myself. Butters turns, his tentacle hair squirming in the light breeze, and his eyes look a little too bright. I reach out a hand, awkwardly resting it on his shoulder. "I... I'll do it proud."
There we stand, I in the same red jacket and hat I've been wearing my whole life, he looking flamboyant but quietly sure, looking at a restaurant no one's ever eaten in.
"I know you will," Butters replies, soft and fragile. "I know it."
And if I ever said I knew what hard work was before that fucking night, then fuck me. We were only able to scrape up two additional chefs for the kitchen, one a survivor of Garrison's homicidal tendencies for whom I had to dig up my old Spanish skills because the fucker was too lazy to learn English when working in America, and the other a woman so enormously bloblike she can barely walk around the kitchen without panting. She actually makes me look good- and, to be honest, things aren't fitting the way they used to. I guess what they say about getting your shit together helping with weight problems too actually is true, because for all the sampling, slurping, and just plain snacking I do, I'm actually losing weight. Fuck you if you think I'm going to lose my figure, but... I'm in a place now where I can admit before I might have skeeved out a few customers, and now I'm just a chef who likes his own food.
We invited pretty much everyone in the whole town, but mostly who shows up is our classmates. Kyle and Stan appear to have resolved whatever problems they were having, giggling like fags and clinging all over each other. Kenny even makes a guest appearance, which I've gotta admit is pretty fucking awesome.
"You came out here all the way from New York just for me?" I say in my nicest suck-up voice, greeting him at the door like every other guest who arrives in time for the hors d'oeuvres (mini quiches, bitches.)
Kenny shrugs, looking up the near foot between us at me with that same 'I could kick your ass but I like you so we're cool' smile he's always had, shaking out shaggy golden locks from his hood. "It was about time I came back home for a visit anyway. I'd say half-off food from Eric Cartman is worth the ride."
Man, I missed him. Not even gonna lie.
Of course, not a half-hour later I'm taking orders in waves, screeching at the fucking Mexican and cracking the whip at blob woman. Never in my life have I made so many goddamned burgers. Forget having meat under my nails. I'm pretty sure my nailbeds have been replaced by patty-producing cells by the time I've shaped every last chunk of meat. I guess that's what I get for specializing in oh-so-creative American food. Butters runs crowd control, mixes so-so drinks (we managed to get an alcohol license three days before opening night; this is kind of Butters' birthday party, meanwhile there's the immense logical lapse of the Denver pundits not wanting a murderer to open a restaurant and yet being fine with an underage owner selling alcohol?) and passes out menus, each of which is hand-lettered by him in gel pens, because why the hell not, and does it in a suit too.
Once the orders are capped off I watch, panting, from behind the little glass window out to half the town, all sitting together over great food and friends. Which, if you think about it, was always something I could stand for. That was really the whole point all along. Butters lifts a glass, even though he quickly decided that alcohol really wasn't his thing, says some nice words about founding this lovely establishments, and glosses over all the parts that were a pain in the ass-
"Let's have a hand for your chef and my- well, my good pal, Eric Cartman!"
-except me.
Butters raises his martini, and holy shit, I watch from behind my shield of a door as nearly everyone who's ever had a hand in my life does the same, smiling, clapping, cheering- congratulating. I stand there dumbfounded as fat chick smokes a cigarette she shouldn't have in here and Mexican eats some leftovers, trying to swallow around the mysterious lump in my throat the size of the Colorado sky.
Butters darts towards the door, pulls it open, laughing. For a split second he stares up into my face and I know what happiness looks like. Then he's pulling me by the arm, presenting what I'm sure is a pretty ridiculous image- twiggy blonde dude in an impeccable suit dragging this enormous guy in a splattered apron and a hat- and when he arrives in the center of the restaurant, my fucking restaurant, people actually stand, clapping their guts out. Kyle looks vaguely alarmed at himself for this, and Clyde is passed out in the corner with drinks I know he's not old enough to have but I'll let slide for tonight scattered over the table, but I'm getting an actual standing ovation for doing what I'm good at.
I think they want a speech but all they get is me flushing bright red and turning my back on everybody so they don't see me turn into a blubbering baby. Which gets lots of aws and chuckles, which I don't even care about.
Because, this.
Just this.
I'm yawning by the time we shove Clyde out the door, the kitchen help grumbling in two languages over having to clean up at midnight, and Butters is sitting at the bar, loosening his tie and flipping through bills, smiling sleepily to himself.
I toddle over to him and collapse into the adjacent seat. "Sweet," I say at length.
Butters laughs to himself. "Yeah, buddy. Sure was." I watch him with pie eyes as he doles out at least two benjamins, amazed that I can make that kind of money only touching literal sausages. "We've come a long way. Well, you have." Butters sets down the stack of bills and looks me in the eyes, a cherubic smile twisting his lips. "I'm so proud of you, Eric."
"Adios!" says Mexican from the door, holding it as fat chick lumbers out. I nod in their general direction before turning back to Butters. I know I should keep my mouth shut, that it's late, that I've just had my first day of honest work, that I'm delusional, but- "Really?"I blurt. "I mean, really, really? After what I did to you?"
Butters cocks his head from side to side, honestly considering this. "Whaddaya mean?"
"Back at Kirby's. All that shit," I say, a familiar bitter edge that's been conspicuously absent lately creeping dangerously near the edges of my voice. "I still can't believe you'd want to put up with me after that."
An uncomfortable look crosses Butters' face. What a surprise. "Oh, well, that's the past now. Shucks, I was in a pretty bad place myself at the time. No harm done, really. I mean, all that I ever thought was real bad was that time when ya- you know, kissed me. An' I know you didn't mean it," he says quietly, looking down at his lap.
"No, I didn't," I blurt sincerely, reaching out a hand for something but thinking better of it. We sit there, in awkward silence, wasting more time than we need to in the wee hours of the morning- just like old times. Butters lifts his head, doing his best to offer me a smile of ... forgiveness? Like, all is well.
And then, because I can't leave well enough alone, I say, "If I had meant it I would have done this," and lean into the first kiss I've ever really meant.
It's lewdly familiar, the way Butters gasps and stiffens, not pulling away but not doing anything. I fucking abort that shit, and he just stares at me with wide eyes and his hands folded in his lap. "Um." I stand up hurriedly. "That is, if I had meant it."
"Uh... huh," Butters says, his voice a mix of emotion too heartrending to really dig into.
"N-nice work," I stammer, a nervous laugh clawing its way out of my chest. "See you tomorrow."
"Uh-huh," he says again, faster, turning his head away. I make my way to the door, trying hard not to run and scream and jump off a fucking bridge. I turn back after I swing it open. Butters has his head at an angle that hides his eyes. All I can see is his mouth. He's not smiling.
"I'm sorry," I say from the door, and my voice breaks, because I really needed that now.
And in the parking lot I realize I just scared away my designated driver in life away. Again. And that he's actually kind of my actual driver, too, and now I can hike across town in the cold September air and beat myself up every step of the way.
Someday I'm going to have to get my shit together, because Butters won't give up on me, and in a way that's what sucks the most of all.
Hahaha, you actually thought things were going to turn around for a second there, didn't you? Don't worry, so did I.
What actually happens, because this is not some corny gay love story movie or whatever, is that every night for the first week we see progressively less customers, possibly because of the aura of discontent between the waiter and the head chef. I'm exhausted and hurting and wondering how I got myself into this mess by Saturday, so what do I do? I make the best decision of my life so far.
I go back to Kirby's.
The man himself is at the bar tonight, and mocks surprise at seeing his favorite big-boned glammed-out hooker perched like a delicate flower and sulking up a storm. "Well, what do we have here! Mr. Head Chef himself!"
"Not in the fucking mood, Kirb," I growl up at him.
"Alright, sweet cheeks," he says, oozing smarm from every greasy, balding pore. "Just make sure you start cutting me a bigger slice of the pie. Soon," he adds pointedly.
I sigh dramatically and bat blue eyelids at him. "Oh, Kirby. Dearest, sweetest Kirby. When have you ever got a slice of the pie?"
Kirby sets down the glass he's polishing and gives me a look I was actually not expecting out of him. "Now. Or else I'm bringing the cops down on you and your 'business's' pretty little head." He does that gross little middle-aged Italian waddle away, and you can just feel the smugness across the room.
I gape after him, probably the picture of one of those sassy heavy-set best-friend cliché types struck dumb with a ruby-ringed O-mouth, then slump. Of course. I need that too. I didn't have enough on my plate. I stare dejectedly at the far wall, looking for something- anything- to keep me from burning through what's left of my stash before anyone even arrives.
And that's when I notice the Asshole-Maker 9000.
Okay, that's not what it's actually called, but it's this little karaoke machine that Kirby keeps at the end of the bar, so drunken dipwads can access storied libraries of MP3s over the Wi-Fi, prance around and sing- badly- at the top of their lungs, hence becoming asshoes. I don't think I've seen anyone use it in at least seven months.
But suddenly I'm sitting in the closest seat to it and scanning through lists of Lady Gaga snippets, and I suddenly know exactly how to get at least a little peace of mind.
been a long time since i came
around
been a long time, but i'm back in town
and this time i'm not leaving without you
you take like whiskey when you kiss me, oh
i'd give anything again to be your baby doll
and this time i'm not leaving without you.
Fuck you to the bartender, fuck you to my customers, fuck you to the people who sing songs that are actually country with this all-powerful machine, fuck you to everything giving me shit. It's completely flawless, and I can just sit here, singing away in a smoky voice, leaning on the bar like I'm a 50s starlet, and glare at the back of Kirby's head. And it actually feels good, giving a shit, being pissed off at the routine. It feels so good that soon I tire of Kirby's balding pate and just close my eyes, swaying slightly to the tune I've heard a thousand times, and for a second it feels like I really can conquer everything.
something, something about this place
something about lonely nights and my lipstick on your face
something, something about my colorado guy
just something about- baby, you and i
Huh. The change flies off my tongue effortlessly. Can't say I meant to do that, but it fits in the song. Basically, I couldn't get any more tongue-in-cheek sassy if I tried. Gee whiz, what shenanigans. I'm such a rascal.
sit back down where you belong
in the corner of my bar with your high heels on
sit back down on the couch where we
made love the first time and you said to me, there's
It's safe to say I'm completely spaced by the time the repeated 'you and I's roll around, staring vaguely in the direction of the door and probably looking intimidating as fuckall while nailing those high notes flawlessly. Too bad. This isn't about them. This is about me. This is about me, and rightly so, for the first time in a long time.
got a whole lot of money but we still pay rent
cos you can't buy a house in heaven
there's only three men that i'm gon' serve my whole life
that's my daddy, colorado, and jesus christ
Two dead guys and a state. The rest I'm just in it with for the money. Or, in one stupid case, one case that doesn't ever want to see me again in all likelihood, the fact that he makes me happy, insanely so.
I open my eyes after the last breathy affirmation, snapping out of a place where I was smirking as the world burned around me and into one where a single old guy is applauding while staring fixedly at my chest.
"How much?" he says when I sneer at him.
I open my mouth, prepared to spit out a slightly adjusted rate, but then I think. Fucksake. What am I doing here? I like crossdressing and the occasional cock. I don't like old men and fucking up my entire life knowingly. I have a fucking restaurant. I'm twenty years old and I have my own goddamned restaurant. I've subconsciously been weaning myself off of nicotine just because it's bad to have in the kitchen. I've lost thirty pounds without even meaning to.
And... And there's one person that thinks the world of me, shitwreck that I am. Or am recovering from being.
"Go revive Billy Mays from the dead and we'll go from there," I mutter, getting up without pushing in my chair, 'cause I'm a hardcore dude. I trot to the bathroom, ditch the heels, pull on my snazzy overlarge yellow sneakers, swing on my jacket over my tanktop, and gather up all my shit. I pause at my baggie of pot.
I leave it on the counter for the next poor son of a bitch.
I think I'm finally getting it. That doesn't have to be me. And I'm letting shit go that I don't have to. Even when I was a little genocidal retard, I didn't just let shit walk away.
I'm gonna go kick ass.
You ever have one of those days when you wake up and just know that everything is going to be okay, that you're untouchable, that no matter what the world throws at you, you'll come out on top?
I used to have a lot of those days, and slowly I'm coming back in touch with them.
Turns out after some sleep and a day off from work I was fine. I don't know what the hell I was thinking, bitching about this amazing thing that had happened to me, but I guess that's called taking shit for granted. The decreasing crowd was just the post-opening hubbub dying down, and soon enough Cardigan's is taking off. I'm a local success (of course I fucking am, says my ten-year-old side) and the profit margins are soon... well, existant. Enough for me to start thinking about getting out of my mom's house. Because honestly, I love my mom and all, but she's not exactly the greatest influence, and I'm twenty goddamn years old and I don't even know how to drive.
Honestly, how have you stood such a scummy narrative for this long? It's okay if you want to hit me, I do too. But don't actually do it, I'll kick your ass, hippy.
So, the thick curtains come up, my room stops stinking so bad of skunkweed and tears, and everything I really want to take with me goes into boxes, and the boxes go in the living room, and there's more fucking paperwork to do. I don't really mind, though, it's not nearly as novel-like as the Restaurant Saga. And besides, I'm apparently becoming an old man, because I am way too happy to be alive lately.
In fact, there's only one thing left that I would consider an area of concern. To be technical as fuck.
I'm sprawled out on my living room floor one Sunday in the winter, the sun streaming in merrily and casting a cheery glow over everything while simultaneously not doing a damn thing about the snow. I'm hidden amongst my forest of boxes, and I'm wrapping up the last of my lease, humming absentmindedly to my stereo, when the doorbell rings and the area of concern steps through my doorframe.
I look up at him, surprised he'd barge in like that, even though it was unlocked. Not much need for locks in this town. If anything wants you dead, you'll need a hell of a lot more defense than that. "Butters," I say finally, lifting a hand in a sort of half-wave.
"Hey, Eric," Butters says, shifting his weight from foot to foot in an incredibly Butters way. His eyes flick around apprehensively, and I can't really blame him. We're not on terrible terms, but it isn't what it was before, either. I can... I can live with it, obviously. There's a residual ache, but not enough to pull me back to the bar, at least not yet. Made my bed, gotta lie in it.
"So, what do you think of my interior design skills?" I snark, trying to break the silence.
Butters shrugs, pulling his hands out of his pockets and looking slightly less uncomfortable thanks to it. "It just looks like you're movin'. Nothin' to be ashamed of."
"Who says I'm ashamed?" I grumble, because if he's going to be standoffish and crash my buzz I'm going to be a douche right back. Because I'm just fucking full of good ideas Eric this is why he doesn't like you anymore. I exhale, count to five, and perk back up. "So what're you doing here? You need something? Jose giving customers a hard time again?"
"No, no, of course not. Jose's okay. If he starts anything again just remind him Mantequilla's watching." Butters smiles a secret smile, which, while I'm not sure what it's about, is nice to see, at least.
"So, um," I say after a few beats.
"So?" Butters looks at me expectantly.
I shrug, doing that weird hand wave that everybody does when they're waiting for someone to get their shit together. "Sooo... are you here for a reason, or..."
"Well, yeah, uh..." Butters looks at me like I should just know, mincing through my labyrinth of boxes and crouching in front of me, returning my shrug. "Don't you need any help with anything?"
I look at him incredulously. "Well, one, I'm nearly done getting out of here, as you can see. And two, I'm not useless. I did this all by myself. I am getting better, you know." My voice strikes a note between proud and slightly offended. Which, I guess is what I am, but probably isn't the best impression to give off.
It's not like I haven't completely fucked over any chance I ever might have had with him, anyway. Butters is looking at me with that same fucking face, and I assume he's just going to get up and walk out the door when he opens his mouth. "Why do you do this?"
What? "I, uh... Because I have a job now?"
"No, I mean this!" His expression finally changes into something hurt, something angry, something I used to try everything to see on his face, and here it finally is. After years and years, Butters is showing something that's short of angelic. "Why do you do this- this, this thing that you do? Can you just tell me if you don't want me around? I'm sick of your gosh darned mixed messages! I know what you think of me! I know that you know how I feel! Can't you just let me down already and stop givin' me hope?" Butters snaps his mouth shut abruptly after the last word like he's just spilled a government secret, but surprisingly makes no move to leave, looking at me with fury and fire... and hurt. All the hurt I've sensed but never seen.
I look at him, dumbfounded for my part. I'm not sure what he just said, but it sounded kind of like... No. No way. "I, um..." I stammer with the persuasive skills of George Lucas.
Butters' face gets pinched over his bones, ugly splotchy red marring his lily skin. "Oh, just forget it already," he grumbles, his eyes bright with tears. Holy shit, I've brought him to tears somehow. "I geddit. I'll jus' go." He swallows a tiny, frail sound that puts an unusual pang in my chest. Huh.
"No, wait," I say, eternally grateful that my mouth decided to do something halfway useful independent of my brain. Butters stops halfway to pushing himself up and out the door, his eyes beginning to brim over, and after all this time he's still willing to listen to what I have to say.
"C'mon, Butters," I say simply, smiling at him with nothing malicious because my own eyes are getting kind of stingy now and it's hard to keep up the front like this. "You of all people should know I don't forget who's a fag."
And this time it isn't me kissing him. It isn't even him kissing me, it's just that ancient gapful of pain and tension finally closing up, like a wound we finally found the right salve for. It's organic, sort of like this was meant to happen and just hasn't until now, and before I know it I've pulled him into my arms, holding his birdlike form against my chest, and he doesn't try to pull away. Butters Stotch is kissing me back and I think I must have died last night.
We spend a lot of time like that, respectively, because there's this silent understanding that we've been waiting a long time for this, which isn't such a revelation after all, I guess. It doesn't go beyond that, just kissing like seventh graders, getting a feel for each other, and eventually when we're tired Butters just looks up at me with big blue eyes, pink in his girlish cheeks, and smiles. I think he's going to cry for some reason, tell me that I'm actually dead and this is a dream, but he doesn't. He just smiles and curls against me and sighs a contented sigh.
And I know it seems like a copout, but hey, I don't know what's going to happen either. I don't know where we're headed. I don't know if my restaurant will sink or swim. I could marry this boy under a canopy of cherry trees in a new suit in a few months, or he could slam the door in my face for the last time ten years from now as the rain pours down overhead. I can hope for the best, and I can try my ass off. But in the end I don't know.
I used to be able to accept that thrilling unknown, but I'm learning again.
And you know what? It's the most exciting journey I'll ever take, and I'm looking forward to it. And maybe, just maybe, I can keep Butters by my side.
He carries an immense faith in me.
Now the trick is for me to remember how to do the same.
But for the first time in a long time, I can honestly tell you I think I'll be okay.
The End
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