A Note From Ben: Well, uh, yet another one. What does this make? Seven? Yeah, I think it does! Well, in my defense, this is on a joint account so it doesn't count against me at all, so there! Ha ha. This one actually came about due to watching Disturbia for the first time. I looked at that and went "Hmm, now that's an interesting idea". When I presented it to P2, he seemed really excited about it and so we decided to go ahead and write it out, despite the fact that he's busy with stuff, and I really, REALLY shouldn't be making any more new stories. I hope you enjoy it, though. We worked really hard on this. :)

From the Desk of "P2": Sup, y'all? Ben said most of what needs to be said about this, excepting the fact that it's not going to be really anything like Disturbia. Just the initial concept, and the fact that our beloved protagonist is in a bit of trouble with the law, as you'll see further down here. Oh, and when Ben says I'm busy with "stuff"... yes, that includes PtD. I'm hoping to put a new one up on 4/20. Enjoy the read!

Disclaimer
Neither of us own South Park or seek to profit from this imaginative act. Any subsequent violation of U.S. or International laws is not intentional and should not be reported to the otherwise-appropriate agencies. Kthxbai.

Stargazing
written by Phoenix II and Ben Barrett

Chapter One - The Worst Summer Ever
Fifteen-year old Stan Marsh sat in his bedroom, looking unhappily out his window. Thus far, this was turning out to be a shitty ass summer for him. It wasn't bad enough that his damn leg had to be in this fucking cast, or that he was confined to his house like a prisoner. No, no. The doctor had to make the God damned thing as tight as he possibly could, making it impossible for him to reach the itch on his calf that had been plaguing him for the last three days.

Just one scratch, that's all I'm asking for God. Just let me get rid of this fucking itch.

Aside from the itching, the worst part of the whole thing absolutely had to be the fact that as long as he was in this cast, he couldn't board. And if there was one thing Stan loved, it was boarding. Skate, surf, snow, it was all the same to him, pretty much as long as it was something he could do something stupid on. And he had done something stupid this time. He'd been grinding down a railing he'd used thousands of times for the same purpose, but this time while in the air, he'd attempted a kickflip that had sent his board hurtling away from him and himself to the ground, where he immediately took note that his leg was most definitely broken.

Cartman had rolled his fat ass on the ground with laughter as he'd screamed with pain, commenting that "this is what you get for being a gay skaterfag, Stan," while Stan cursed him, his mother, and the skateboard maker and yelled at him to call an ambulance. Wendy, who was a great friend, even if he wasn't really interested in her anymore, had kicked Cartman in the ribs and dialed 911 on her cell. In the hospital, the doctor had told him while setting the bone that he was lucky he'd broken just the one bone, the way he landed. Then, he proceeded to snap the thing back into place, and no amount of luck in the world could keep Stan from screaming again and letting loose with a profanity that Priest Maxi would have fainted dead away on hearing, and would have forced Stan into 155 Hail Mary's followed by 92 Our Father's and 34 complete recitations of the Rosary upon awakening.

Son of a bitch didn't even warn me he was gonna do it. He just fucking did it.

He cast these thoughts aside as quickly as they'd come. He didn't want to focus on any of that anymore because it just made him hurt all over again. He decided the best way to take his mind off of his broken bone and that infernal itching would be to pour all of his attention into his beloved telescope. It was his pride and joy, the one thing that he treasured above everything else he owned, including the Flaming Fart Terrance and Phillip dolls that he'd managed to obtain before they were recalled.

Even his XBOX and his collection of skateboarding videogames couldn't compare to how much he treasured the telescope. His dad had bought it for him a couple of years ago, after Stan had been assigned to do a report for his seventh-grade science class on Saturn. Since then, any time he was bored or anxious or anything of the sort at night, he took it outside, set up his biped, and lay on the grass, staring up into the heavens. Of course, during the daytime, he used it for other activities. One of those activities, especially as of late, was spying on his neighbors.

Stan knew this wasn't the most legal thing to be doing, but he was a bored teenager with nothing better to do. This afternoon, he decided to take a peek down by Craig's house. Stan did not like Craig. In fact, he hated Craig more than he hated his big sister, who made no secret of her loathing of him. Shelley, thank God, was off in Montana this summer, probably fucking the brains out of her Arabic boyfriend. Stan had no idea how an Arabic family wound up in Montana, of all places, but at least Shelley wasn't home alternating between beating him up and complaining about how Mom and Dad wouldn't give her their credit cards to spend at the mall.

Craig, today, had set up his wooden skateramp in his driveway and was alternating between executing 360 degree kickturns and falling on his overly-padded ass. Craig was getting slightly better, and another source of distress to Stan was the fact that by the time his leg was fully healed, Craig would probably be able to skate rings around him, which would mean Craig would be hanging with all the cool kids, while Stan had to settle for the misfits like the fatass Cartman, the poor kid Kenny, the other fat kid Clyde, and the ever-caffeinated Tweek. This, to Stan, would be Hell. He wanted the cast off, and he wanted to be back practicing his moves out in the summer sunshine, instead of virtually on Tony Hawk Underground. There's only so many times a guy can skate across St. Petersburg while clutching the back of a car before it just gets boring.

Movement off to the side caught Stan's eye and he turned his attention and telescope there. Fuck Craig, anyway. He was an asshole who delighted in riding by Stan's house as slow as he could until someone noticed him, then flipping the bird and screaming insults. Watching a douche like that for too long would only make him want to grind his teeth in anger, and the last thing he needed on top of his broken leg and all the other drama in his life was an angry dentist.

He'd probably put me in headgear like Shelley's just out of spite, the bastard.

He saw someone taking down the FOR SALE sign on the front lawn of the house next door and putting up a SOLD sign in its place. Nothing too interesting about that, really. Knowing South Park (and his luck) it would wind up being some ninety-year old lesbian couple or something. He'd be looking around one night with his telescope and accidentally swoop across their bedroom window and there they'd be, scissoring their saggy, wrinkled bodies together. Oh, God, that was a revolting thought.

I'd never get someone cool next door that I could relate to. I'd get the lesbian grandmas or another douchebag like Craig. The way this summer is going, a friend is just too much to ask for.

His cell phone went off suddenly and he backed up from his telescope to have a look. The LED screen said "MOM", the last person in the world he really wanted to talk to, aside from Craig. She always had something unpleasant for him to do, or something she needed him to do to get ready for dinner before she came home to cook it. Usually involving an ingrediant she either forgot to take out of the fridge to de-thaw, or forgot to buy entirely, they were happening far too frequently as of late for Stan's liking.

With a sigh, he flipped it open and answered it.

"Yeah mom?"

"Stanley, honey, I need you to do something for me."

"What is it mom?" Stan asked, pinching the bridge of his nose and waiting for the request.

"I need you to go downstairs in an hour and start getting dinner ready. The crock pot is already out on the counter, you just need to cut the potatoes and the onion, mix the beef stock with the water and put it all in the pot. Plug it in and let it start boiling while you cube the meat and brown it, then add it to the rest of the ingredients in the pot and let it boil and simmer for an hour, OK honey?"

"Couldn't you have just emailed me this?" he asked, writing down the last of it on his arm.

"I didn't know if you were going to be on, Stanley," Sharon admonished him. "But you will do it, right?"

"Yes, mom, I'll do it," Stan said. "See you later," he added, hanging up as soon as his mother added her own "Goodbye."

By the time he got back to the telescope, the Realtor had left the block already. Not seeing any point in lingering at the window anymore, he began to make his way downstairs. It would take him at least a good ten to fifteen minutes to hobble down there, and he figured it would be best to just go down and maybe watch TV in the living room for awhile until it was time to carry out his orders. That way he wouldn't stay at his telescope till the last minute, realize what he was supposed to be doing, try to rush to the kitchen on his crutches, and tumble down the stairs. A broken neck on top of a broken leg and everything else that was going on didn't really sound all that appealing.

Fuck that. Besides, I can always pull out the old Gamesphere. That's good for a few laughs still.

Working his way down step by step, he managed to reach the safety of the living room without taking a tumble. One thing he never got used to, regardless of how long he'd been stuck like this (going on four weeks now) was the anxiety. Stairs always filled him with dread, as did escalators (though he rarely saw those, being confined to his house and all) and other places where balancing precariously on two sticks could result in more broken bones.

If there's one thing I'm looking forward to more than scratching that itch, it's being able to walk around my own house without worrying about killing myself.

He made his way into the kitchen and sat down at the table with a sigh. Could life get any shittier? Well, actually, he supposed it could. A look at the calendar on the wall reminded him that there was something in his very near future that could make everything he was enduring now seem like a fucking wet dream in comparison. He couldn't see the red circle around July 26, as the calendar was still set to June, but he knew that if he got up and flipped ahead one month, it would still be there, glaring at him like the eye of Sauron.

My court date. The day that could ruin my life forever. Oh God, how did this happen to me?

How he was still free was a miracle to him, considering what they said he did.

"Stanley Marsh," the judge said, looking down at him with a look of surprise. "That's the last name I ever expected to see on my docket."

"You know," Stan replied, looking back at him with a rather angry look on his face, "I feel exactly the same way."

He knew that he should use more respectful words when speaking to the man who held his very fate in his hands, but he was too upset at the moment to use clear judgment. Not only had he been arrested on a bogus charge, right there while shopping with his mother for ground beef, he had been hauled in to an express arraignment without the chance to make himself look good or anything. The Stan Marsh that he knew the judge was seeing was not an impressive one. He was dressed in black, baggy pants and a Robert Smith T-shirt he'd bought at Hot Topic just the day before. On his wrists were black wristbands, one featuring Invader Zim and the other sporting a picture of a cheeseburger and the words "Don't Feed Phil". He'd had a chain running from his beltloop to his back pocket, but the police had taken that, of course, and he'd probably never see it again.

God, I'm dressed like I'm going to a Green Day concert, not facing possible jail time, he thought. The only difference between me and those Billie Joe fanboys is a God damn necktie.

The judge flipped through some papers in Stan's file, skimming over the details. At one point his eyes went wide and he looked over his glasses at him in shock.

"This is unbelievable," he said. "Stan Marsh being charged with...with THIS? I never thought I'd see the day."

"Your honor," his public defender said, "we'd like to motion that Stanley be released on his own recognizance. He's never been a threat to anyone, and his clean record precedes him."

The prosecution wasted no time trying to squash this. All things considered, they wanted him rotting in a jail cell until he was tried and convicted, then they'd happily see him rot away in another jail cell for another five to ten years.

"Your honor," they countered, "this boy is being charged with a serious crime. He didn't just steal a candy bar. He..."

"I KNOW what he's being charged with," the judge shot back, cutting them off in mid-sentence, "and I'm telling you right now, the Stan Marsh that grew up in this town is a model citizen. He used to come shovel the snow off my walk when he was a little boy. He and the other scouts used to do all kinds of things to help the community. He coached the Pee-Wee Hockey League when my son was on it. This boy is not a risk. Defense motion is granted," he said, hitting the gavel.

"Your honor!" the prosecutor objected. "Don't you think you're a little close to the defendant?"

"Are you suggesting I recuse myself from an arraignment, Counselor?" the judge replied with raised eyebrows.

"No sir, but if you're going to handle this case for trial - "

"You know full well that this boy's fate will be decided by a jury of his peers, not me, Mr. Hawkins. Is there anything else?"

"No, your honor."

"Very well then, jury selection will commence 26 July, opening arguments to begin no later than the 28th. Next case?"

Stan hadn't heard from his PD since. This alone was worrying, since he expected the DA's office to have at least offered him a plea bargain. That was the way it worked on Law & Order, anyway. The prosecutors always seemed to take pity on first time offenders, especially kids. There always seemed to be a plea bargain for a frightened boy who'd never done anything wrong before.

So where the hell is mine?

Maybe they just hated him. It could have a lot to do with his skater image. The baggy clothes, the chains; all of it said to people like that asshole Hawkins that he was a soulless little troublemaker who had no moral values at all, and that he should be made to suffer for what he was being accused of doing. Hell, a beady-eyed little prick like that would probably motion that Stan be sent to the gallows if he thought he could get away with it. Nevermind that the death penalty was only for murder charges, or that no jury or judge in the fucking country would be willing to give a child such a sentence; he'd still try, and probably ask if he could be the one who got to do the honors.

He'd be happy just to get another 'punk kid' out of the way. It'd make room for people who hold closer to what he believes, the little shitter.

His mother would have told him that he was judging Hawkins unfairly. After all, wasn't he just doing his job? Fuck that. He wasn't "just doing his job". He had a personal vendetta against Stan and everyone like him. Even after the judge had personally stood in and vouched for his character, the heartless cocksucker had continued to argue that Stan was a dangerous menace to society. That just SCREAMED bias in Stan's opinion.

Thinking so much about the prosecution made him wonder if his own lawyer had any plan to defend him. Had he had bothered to look at the evidence, or was he just planning on throwing Stan up into the witness box and to the lions? Given the lack of contact he'd had, he strongly suspected the latter. After all, as long as Stan could plant reasonable doubt, he'd go free. For a crime he didn't commit in the first place. 'Gotta love the American legal system,' he mused darkly, glancing at the clock and waiting for the time to start dinner to arrive.

In the meantime, there were always Terrance and Phillip reruns...