Author's note: Welcome to my first story, My Toys Like Me
Hope you enjoy your stay and feel free to review as harshly as you feel appropriate. A girl needs to learn from her mistakes, is all. Disclaimer: South Park does in no way belong to me, as it is the property of Matt Stone and Trey Parker, as well as Comedy Central.
Prologue: Misfit
The clashing of bullets to armor, the death cries and explosions; all of these had become persistent sound effects for the past four hours. Ironically, it was as subtle as an afterthought, and as the drowsy early morning took hold, it had become the melodic anthem of a desensitized lost generation. Boyhood in general always seemed to spawn such disappointments. However, I should be quick to note that none of my compadres felt the need to share in my discomfort, and as the whirr of rifle shots spitfire into the night, nothing could have persuaded Kenny and Stan from dislodging their attention away from Cartman's Xbox-on-monitor setup. Running and gunning had never been so much fun. Nevertheless, I had become tolerant, yet not entirely comfortable, with the idea that MW3 was going to become a weekly ritual, a bonding experience, and the main topic of discussion. It had been the same with previous COD installments, but that new game fever always seemed to amaze me. It just never reached the same peak, always going just a bit higher in the buzz it formulates with each new part in the series. I digress; the mere mention of video games should send any normal boy my age into a heated, one-sided discussion over the intricacies of team selection and weapon upgrades. It just never seemed to have that effect on me, or at least less now that I'm nearly in college.
That's right my friends, we're all nearing that existential, real-life upgrade from what was deemed the most awkward period of our lives. Hopefully we can all move on from the time that Cartman "accidentally" set fire to the school, or when Butter's notorious idol career really took the spotlight… right now, we're all carelessly fitting into our niche, some of them less healthy than others. As for me, Kyle Broflovski, my place seems to be somewhere between model student and hotheaded mediator. My roles fluctuate not because of anything I decided, but because they rely on a certain Machiavellian fatass to set them into action. Yes, his name is Eric Cartman, and he might just be the bane of my existence, the fire to my breath, and the popping vein to my irritated forehead. I couldn't halfway imagine a day without some needless argument, or a brainless get-rich-quick scheme gone totally wrong. It's somewhat unthinkable that the bastard could have a normal day, especially if it means allowing us to have one too, but that's not how the story goes I suppose… the real mystery is pinpointing when exactly everything started to change, when relations started to fumble and foundations morphed into unrecognizable projections of their former selves.
In the end, my story doesn't begin or conclude without acknowledging first the collective efforts of a series of fuck-ups and dramatic arguments. If I wasn't so easily offended I would have done something about it sooner. It's easy to fall into normalcy though, and with Cartman that meant going along with day-by-day quarrels. Maybe that's what went wrong; I took the wrong direction in my social fork-in-the-road. I fell into the misguided belief that tomorrow would be different, that the days don't string together like a thread. Fate; it's a funny word, right? Who would have thought that such unlikely candidates would be linked together in such a way? Like hell I did. No one could have seen this coming.
Chapter one: You'll Find A Way
Innocence is lost soon after hormones awaken, but how long is the window period between childhood and adolescence? One can choose wisely on whether or not to act upon a conduct that is deemed socially unacceptable, but for a man to beguile another with passive-aggressive torment, to attract them in, bringing them to their knees, and extracting that very essence that defines their relationship… what unimaginable sadistic pleasure could one derive from this? Normally, their behavior wouldn't have been considered flirting; no, no way in hell! Nonetheless, lately the odious pair had been doing a lot of what many would consider playful behavior. It wasn't about the insults anymore; the exchanges had gotten more physical, more aggressive. They placed their hands on one another more readily now, shoving, pulling… kissing? No, that couldn't have been what that was. That was a blunder, a step too far, a rare fleeting moment lost to the heated battle. No one had noticed their lips peck as their faces shoved into one another during the wrestle to the ground. Not even they had noticed, really. Still, it wasn't like Kyle to resort to violence. In his defense, it wasn't his fault that his self-control had weakened over the years; what used to be so easy, a "shut up fat-ass!" here and there, or a minor rip on the portly boy's expense, was now the second option. The first was easier, more satisfying.
All he needed to do to satisfy his rage was pin that son-of-a-bitch down, pummel him into the ground, tear his skin, and replace his anger for bruises on the boy's soft flesh. However, Cartman wasn't as easily fought and won as Kyle would have liked. But who's to say that the lure of the brawl was all thanks to an undying hatred? The smoldering fire in both of their eyes burned for more than just a quick release of fury, no, it was much more complicated than that. Their bodies just naturally complimented each other. When they held one another, albeit forcefully and rather erratically, they fit like a key to its lock; they shared body heat, exchanged glances that could have been considered sexual if not belonging to two roughed-up boys, and even tasted each other's lips (whether they knew it or not was beside the point). Anyway, right now the intensity of their stares was getting the attention of everyone inside of their snowy, small-town Colorado high school. South Park hadn't changed much, a few new faces and a few older ones gone for good, but the place still had that magical ability to transform ordinary issues into something difficult to ignore. I guess that's what Eric Cartman was; difficult to ignore.
"Come at me Kahl," Eric spat, motioning his hand back and forth into a quasi-judo move. "Stop acting like a retard, Cartman; just fix your royal fuck up so we can all go home." Kyle said as he narrowed his eyes on his tormentor, not necessarily aiming to initiate a fight, but not submissively locking his tail between his legs either. He waited for an excuse, a straw on the camel's back that would blind him into an undisturbed fury for the next ten minutes. After those ten minutes were up, he'd be lucky to still be standing, his weak Jewish body be damned. Eric's latest scheme had been particularly monumental. He had bartered with, and swindled, Satan himself, bringing forth hail the size of golf balls and snow so thick that it had barricaded all the doors and safety-glass windows.
"I'm afraid I can't do that Kyle." Cartman's tone had taken a serious turn, but his overall composition was still in a defensive stance.
"You see, after I had agreed to find Bin Laden's body in exchange for the revival of my beloved stuffed animal clan, I realized that I didn't need Satan at all." He paused and speculated the faces of all who were listening. He noticed their collective anticipation, which was practically written on their foreheads, and turned around full circle for dramatic affect. "I didn't want to tell anyone, but you leave me no choice…" trailing off, Eric reached into his backpack and pulled out Bin Laden's decaying, pale, wrinkled head. People around him screamed. "What the hell, Cartman!" Stan yelped, reaching back and pulling Wendy closer to him in genuine surprise.
"This, my friends, is the answer to our problems." Eric beamed.
"I found this little gem hidden away in the Indian Ocean; it was actually quite easy to locate according to the archeologist I hired, as the grave was marked with a giant white cross adorned with flowers and pictures of Osama Bin Laden were sprawled everywhere." Eric paused and whispers soon commence, questions like "isn't that generally a Catholic ritual?" sprung about, but the talk was quickly silenced by a deep, crackling thunder. People rushed to the windows to see what events were unfolding outside, but to everyone's surprise, the snow had been replaced by the proverbial jagged, stalagmite caves of Hades; fire burning through the hellish domain as freely as deer running through a forest. "Gee whiz, are we in Imaginationland again? I don't like Imaginationland…" Butters interjected. "Look at this mess, Cartman! You realize that this is more than just a routine malaise right?" Kyle shook with anger, a straw slowly coming into place on the back of the metaphorical camel that was his patience. "Calm down, Kahl, your bitching won't help matters." Eric said, brushing him off and lowering Bin Laden's head back into his knapsack.
Suddenly, a highly pressurized batch of vapor aimed at the door caused the building to collapse in on itself near the entrance, killing Kenny and several others on the spot. Once the vapor had cleared, the red behemoth began to gain form. Stan and Kyle immediately ran closer to the where the doors used to be, furrowing their eyebrows in horror while exclaiming in unison; "Oh my god! They killed Kenny, those bastards!"
The image of Satan was large and intimidating, his body a terrifying mixture of what appeared to be half goat and half monster-man, his lobster red skin and sparkling abs shining from the vapor bath. "Heheheh…" looming above the crowd, his diabolical mouth formed a smile, "Eric Cartman… friends… welcome to the side show." Satan's voice was… well, it wasn't what they had expected. He sounded kind of gay to tell you the truth, but nonetheless, the fear was unshakeable!
"This is your entire goddamn fault, you idiot lump of lard!" Kyle's tipping point had been compromised a while back, but now he was fuming like a fresh batch of boiling tea.
"Your fault… this is all…your fault… your fault..."
"Kyle, wake up dude!" Stan's screeching whispers caused him to snap awake in a drooling, confused frenzy.
"W-Wh-What! It's all his fault!" Kyle pushed himself away from his chair, standing shakily beside it, and gripped his desk so tightly that his knuckles had gone white. Mr. Garrison stood in disbelief at his reaction, mouth agape and chalk in hand. Eric Cartman sat idly by, perfectly content in ignoring the Jew while he wrote feverishly into a little green notebook. He ripped out a page, and repeated the process. That asshole! Kyle fumed, remembering his hellish nightmare, and knowing that Cartman would never know a single detail. "Broflovski! If you interrupt my class like that again I swear by Mr. Hat's testicles that I'll have your head on a platter. Now sit down and PAY ATTENTION!" He shrieked, spitting his saliva on the first row of kids in anger.
"W-won't happen again Mr. Garrison." Kyle said sheepishly, eyeing the menace who had just invaded his dreams. Cold sweat began to form around his temples; none of this seemed to scream "have a good last year in high school."
He wondered if he should be scared.