Disclaimer: Mmm'kay. I obviously own nothing. South Park belongs to Matt Stone, Trey Parker, and Comedy Central.

Author's Note: Hello, reader. Thank you for taking an interest in my story. You can expect plenty of coarse language from the characters' since I'm keen on staying true to South Park. There may be gay slash down the road. Besides language, this story has earned the rating M for future drug use. If both subjects make you uncomfortable, please do not read. You have been warned.


All American Rejects

Ever since the start of high school, Stan Marsh had been fortunate enough to have it all. Being on the football team made him naturally one of the most popular guys on campus. The fact that he was also the captain and starting quarterback gave him plenty of attention as well. However, as with most matters in life, too much of one thing always led to severe consequences.

The nightmare was still fresh in the young man's mind.

There was only one minute left of the big homecoming game. The weather conditions were appalling. Rain was pouring from the sky, and the field was a slippery mess. The South Park Cows could hardly see a foot in front of them.

Even with all the odds against the players, Stan was the leader for his team. He had the ball. He was about to cross into the end zone. Unfortunately, one of the vicious running-backs from Middle Park tackled him in a most brutal manner. The last few seconds of the clock ran out, and the South Park Cows lost the most paramount game of the year to the Middle Park Cowboys.

However, the crushing lost was not the end of Stan's misery. His reputation with the student body was no longer top priority; the horrendous force behind the tackle left him immobilized on the field. Once it was apparent that Stan was not moving, the disappointment and anger faded into mass hysteria. His mother forced her way through the crowd, running onto the field in tears.

Stan was not sure who called the ambulance, but one finally arrived after about a half hour in the freezing cold. The worst part was that he was trying to console Sharon, though he was in a state of utmost panic on the inside. He was not capable of moving his toes. Despite the severe tackle, Stan felt surprisingly numb below his waist, which scared the living daylights out of him. Typically, he ached everywhere.

Hours dragged at an exceptionally slow crawl at Hells Pass Hospital. The less than stellar staff broke the horrible news to Stan in the early hours of the next morning: He was paralyzed from the waist down, and he was never going to walk again.


Dear Diary,

Life as a paraplegic sucks major ass. None of my friends rip on me anymore. Because I wasn't born this way, it's like they all treat me differently… I feel like Timmy and Jimmy are treated as full members of society compared to me.

You know what it's like? It's like everyone's bummed out to be around me. Kyle forces these broken smiles and tries to be encouraging. Cartman doesn't remind me of how much of a raging pussy I am. And Kenny never talks about all the fun he has with his dick in front of me. They're all walking on goddamn eggshells, and I hate it.

Why in the hell should I have to be trying to make them feel better? I'm the fucking cripple! It's like I'm an eyesore to look at. It's like I should be swept under a rug. It's like everyone should just forget about me… I'm obviously way too depressing to be around.


"Aww…AWW…" Stan moaned, setting the old book aside on his nightstand. The pages were written during his senior year of high school. He was twenty-one now and still hated life. His friends, on the other hand, were off to bigger and better things.

Kyle was attending Harvard Medical School. Stan had a pathetic hope that his super best friend was looking for a cure for him, but he knew the redhead always aspired to help people from a young age. Kyle lived in Boston full time now, and he only came to visit during the holidays and the summertime.

Cartman merely got lucky. His photography, which consisted of plenty scandalous pictures featuring Butters, was noticed by some Hollywood bigwigs, and the fat bastard was now living it up in LA while shooting anorexic models.

Aside from sex, Kenny always had a knack for fixing up cars. The blond decided to stop being as useless as his parents. After high school, Kenny landed a job at an auto shop in Denver. He was also able to sober up his siblings and take them along with him. The three of them never looked back.

Frankly, Cartman and Kenny were basically nonexistent in Stan's life, and Kyle was a close faceless contender.

"I should've got a football scholarship. I should've been the first one out of this town…" Stan murmured bitterly to himself.

Talking to himself was sadly a pastime that became commonplace over the years. He typically had nobody to spend time with besides his family. While he was once the center of the town's pity, he was currently a pathetic ghost of a person. People on the street gave him occasional empty sympathy and small talk. Other townsfolk offered Stan looks that they would never give the able-bodied passersby. Subsequently, Stan decided he would rather be truly alone than feel alone; he was a major shut-in.

"Stan, honey… It's already after noon," Sharon greeted in a quiet voice, opening her son's door without knocking. "It's time to help you out of bed. And I need to check your catheter. I feel like we can't be too careful after that urinary tract infec—"

"Shut up, Mom!" Stan cried, horrified and embarrassed for his mother to bring such up. The fact that it was only the pair of them in the room ceased to matter. He absolutely despised feeling like some eighty-year-old man. Sadly, Stan found it easy to understand why his late grandfather always asked his grandson to euthanize him.

"Stan…" Sharon sighed in a tired way.

"I can take care of that myself, okay? I can still use my goddamn arms!" Stan fired back rapidly. Despite his tone of voice, he was actually fighting back tears.

"I care about you, and I love you. You've been in your room for so long… And after that…infection, I thought you could use some extra help." The tension was so thick, and it was something that Sharon would never be able to get used to.

"It doesn't matter how long I've been in here! I can be in bed as long as I want; I can turn myself. It's not like I'm getting a bunch of pressure sores," Stan reminded through gritted teeth, hoping that would be enough to get his mother off her catheter kick. He was only human—wasn't he allowed to make some mistakes?

"Ten minutes, young man. I want you in the bathroom taking care of yourself in ten minutes. Besides, I told your father you two would have some TV time together." Sharon carefully avoided mentioning the Broncos game.

"Whatever! Just leave…" Stan grumbled. Even after three years, he still hated others watching his independent struggle out of bed.


"Fine. But I'm going to be back to check on you," Sharon said firmly. With one more sharp look, she finally left her son to his arduous task.

"Can you believe it, Stan?" Randy asked his son, taking a sip of his beer. The hour never was important to him. The middle-aged man figured there was always time to have fun. "Boy, I sure don't see how these Wall Street saps actually agree to support their useless wives. I mean, if your mother didn't cook or clean, there'd be problems."

Stan rolled his eyes. Who in the hell was the old man trying to impress? He decided to answer Randy's question with another question. "Dad, why are we watching Pregnant in Heels when the Denver Broncos are playing the Chicago Bears right now?" The young man cracked open a beer of his own. Stan never was much of a drinker due to his weak stomach. However, if he could get a buzz going, maybe life's harsh edges would be softened.

"Ooh!" Randy gasped in a dumb surprised manner, spilling a bit of his beer. "That? Oh, is the game on? Jesus, I didn't really remember. God, Bravo just has such good television. I love it so, son."

"Are you trying to fool me or yourself?" Stan snapped, clenching the aluminum can tighter in his hand. He slammed the beer down on a nearby end table. "Even if you like this retarded crap, you LOVE football!"

Randy gawked at his angry son. "W-Well, son, it's just… You know…" He gesticulated with his free hand in a vague way, almost as if the awkward gesture was supposed to finish the rest of his sentence.

"What? Just because football ruined my life doesn't mean the Denver Broncos stopped being my favorite team!" Stan's icy blue eyes were burning directly into Randy. "And if you're gonna keep this bullshit up, then I'm going to wheel myself down to the goddamn bar and watch the game myself!" At least that freak Halfy was usually there, who made Stan feel tremendously better, considering the old war veteran had no legs.

"Sh-Sharon! Sharon, get in here!" Randy implored. Stan pinched the brim of his nose.

Sharon stepped into the living room from the kitchen. "Would you two keep it down in here? I'm trying to make our lunch." She put her hands on her hips, eyeing both of her men in a keen fashion.

"Stan's saying how he wants to ditch me for the guys at the sports bar," Randy informed his wife in a juvenile way. His tone suggested he was telling on his son. "…'sides, they're my friends and stuff."

"Stanley, you watch TV with your father," Sharon demanded. "Every time you watch football, you sink into a depression. It's not good for you."

"You're both forgetting that I'm a fucking adult! I can watch whatever I want on TV!" Stan argued back. "I hate both of you, and you're not adding to my quality of life! You're only making my life a living hell!"

The vicious words hit home for Randy and Sharon. A horrible silence ensued. Randy took a much needed swig of beer, though he felt as if he needed something stronger. Sharon's cross expression faded into a heart broken one.

Jumping on the window of opportunity, Stan wheeled himself out of the living room and towards the front door. First, the dark-haired male wisely opened the closet. He reached around to grab the handicap reacher out of the backpack on his wheelchair. Making full use of the device, Stan struggled a bit to retrieve his coat from its hanger. After bringing it down, Stan stored the foldable reacher and worked on getting dressed.

Unfortunately, Sharon recovered enough to rush over to the door. The woman stopped directly in front of it. "Stanley, just where do you think you're going?" she demanded. "We can talk about this! You're only going to upset yourself more by being out in town!"

"I'd rather have them look at me than have the pair of you keep me in a plastic bubble!" Stan countered coldly. He zipped up his coat. "Get out of the way, Mom."

"…If you're not back by five o'clock, I'm coming to find you," Sharon cautioned. Honestly, they all could afford a break from each other. "…Do you have your cellphone on you?" she checked.

"Yeah, yeah…" Stan retorted crabbily. He grabbed his poofball hat and gloves out of his backpack, putting them on next.

"I mean it, Stanley," Sharon told him sharply.

"I told you that I did!" Stan snapped, giving her a death glare. To further his point, he pulled his phone out of his pocket for a moment before putting it away.

Sharon sighed dejectedly. Finally, the older woman opened the door for her son, who wheeled himself out into the frigid air. "Take care, Stanley…"

"Uh huh," Stan grumbled, rolling down the wheelchair ramp as fast as his wheels could carry him.