disclaim ;; I don't own South Park.

information ;; This is something I wrote to get in the feel for Pick the Pieces Up. Eric's POV, first person, just something I slammed out in twenty minutes or so. Forgive grammatical errors. Reviews are loved and appreciated.

Something was bothering the Jew.

I couldn't put my finger on it for the life of me. Caring was a new concept in my life, and apparently one I was failing badly. Countless hours of the past year have been spent arguing, bickering, screaming. We've been constantly fighting since Kindergarden. I don't know what made him think we wouldn't fight after the sex. Part of me wishes he'd just get over it and move on, but the other part... Well, that's something I'm not willing to come to terms with yet.

At the present moment, I'm watching the pale white world go by out the passenger window of his family's maroon SUV in dead silence. His hands, no doubt, are at ten and two. No doubt in my mind that his jaw is clenched tight, his eyes are dead ahead, and beneath his curly red Jew-fro, he's thinking of the next thing to bitch me out about. I took his hat off at his place. We forgot it there, during the fight.

It was a stupid fight. We've had our share of retarded fights, but seriously. This one took the cake and ate it too. To understand the fight, you need to know that we aren't a couple. We don't love each other, we're not a fairy tale. We've never been anything but a horror story, and the sex didn't change that. If anything, it made things even more complicated. I didn't think it was possible, but it was, which is what made this fight especially stupid.

Kyle recently found out I slept with Bebe Stevens at a drunken party, which threw the delicate Jew into a fit of anger, directed at me. Maybe that makes sense to an outsider, but we're talking about a love-hate relationship that's been cultivating since the diaper-days. We're not a couple, I've told him that from the beginning, the night at Token's party.

I'm Eric fucking Cartman. I'm not gay. I can't be gay. I hate faggots and Jews and the fucking Chinese. I killed my half-brother's parents - my own father - and made chile out of them. I almost facilitated the elimination of the Jewish people, single handedly. If I were gay, I'd be sitting at home making doilies with my grandma and crying about my problems. Probably what Kyle would be doing, if he still had a grandma.

It's the way he's staring at the road every time I look at him. I know something is pissing him off, but I really can't put my finger on it. We've already had our fight, we've gotten over it, and we got in the car. I move on almost immediately. Apparently, he doesn't, because me sleeping with Bebe is the only thing that could possibly be setting him off right now.

Dead ahead, thick fog was falling down like a fat lady's skirt. I expect Kyle to slow down, carefully drive like he always did. The car never slows, and we shoot into the thick fog like a bullet. Its so thick, I can hardly see the headlights, but Kyle still doesn't slow down. Something must really be pissing him off, because he's never been this rash.

"Slow down, asshole." My voice sounds distant and alien in my ears as it shatters the silence.

His jaw clenches, I see the muscles twitch, but I feel the car slow slightly. It's a minor relief as the fog thickens. Stark's pond is somewhere on this road. I've gone hunting there with Kenny a few times since Hunter's Safety classes. There's deer everywhere. The old folk put food out for them. I wonder if Kyle knows this. It's fall, the deer are getting restless.

"Kyle, slow down," I command angrily. I'm never in a powerless position until I get in the car with him. It makes me feel weak, defenseless. I hate it, and he knows it.

The car slows, and Kyle finally unclenches his jaw, opening it fractionally to take a deep breath. I brace for a verbal attack, but none comes. He closes his mouth and goes back to the road. This will continue until our destination, where he will unload everything he's been thinking, we'll scream at each other, call each other stupid names, and when we've run out of insults, we'll have another round of angry sex before starting the delicate dance all over again. Sometimes, I think I like the attention. Scratch that, I know I like the attention.

"Was she good?"

Scoffing, I flip my hand up. "If good means laying there and moaning like a stuck pig with a hernia," I say. Is this the response he wants? No. I go with it anyway. "I can't believe the whole football team has fucked her. More than once."

"I'm sure that gets you off, fatass," Kyle growls, glaring daggers at the fog covered road.

"Shut the hell up, Jew."