A/N: This multi-chap fic was weirdly inspired by the manga by Darren Shan called 'Cirque du Freak'.

It is an AU [Alternate Universe] where some characters do not know each other. Do not worry, I will make it clear on who knows who and who doesn't in my own sly way so you barely even realize it, as well as a few changes. There is also a subplot, the possible pairing will be made known once you read it, babes.

The rating will begin as a T but may turn into a M depending on how graphic I decide on writing specific scenes.

Tweek la Freak

1: Back in ze Town of Freaks

'The Adrenalini Blonds Are Missing'

The energized yet agitated chatters that were buzzing around the impatient French audience died down hastily when the out sized arena gradually darkened, adding emphasis to the blood-curdling dramatic effect such an abnormal circus would give to one.

Beady eyes of every color started flicking their focus' to the extravagant, circular stage made of refined, glistening gold in the barely lit center so they could witness the unbelievable, daring acts they were expecting to see happen before them.

Several stage lights boomed unto one spot on the polished, oak runway which led to the platform in the middle of the room; a tall, brooding shadow, only to be seen once the scarlet red front drapes separated from each other in respect for the man in black who was dressed formally in a gentlemanly manner, tapped his black top hat with his finger pads before bowing, and began walking after getting a polite cheer from the anticipated viewers.

With every intimidating step he took, all its silencing echoes hit the many sensitive ear drums owned by eager men who ached for the fear, made the floorboards shake with a great intensity. His whole body was puffed up because of his unhealthy level of pride and his oblong face grew a seductive, knowing grin that made the small chunk of fat in his immensely pale cheek crease together in between the corner of his chapped, taupe lips and his pointy, right ear lobe with many satanic piercings in it as the blinding light followed him obediently.

Once the being was in the middle, in a spot where every one could see him nice and clearly, the 7 ft giant bowed down again gracefully after dusting off the invisible dirt on his white tucked in dress shirt, black waist and tail coat and elevated his scarily long spine up to straighten his posture once again.

He slowly span around on the heel of his classy black leather shoes so he could frighten everyone with his murky eyes, the moving images of the lake of fire dancing in his irises pierced itself into everyone's minds, scarring their souls with the sight of hell.

Once he had finally stopped spinning in a 360 degree angle, he smirked again as he stretched forth his hands towards an intrigued group of male adolescents with punk hairstyles of each and every primary color.

"Hello, humans of Paris," he chided, the deep, throaty vibrations that emerged from his larynx raised the hairs that weren't already up instantaneously.

The group of punks trembled from his unwavering attention, only settled when he stopped focusing on them to greet them all to the circus. "...and I welcome you all with pleasure to the macabre Hall of Misfits –not for the faint hearted," he said to them before warning the squeamish, huffing when the audience merely gulped and fearfully nodded in acknowledgement.

He took a couple of steps back before skilfully igniting a ball of fire in his cupped monstrous hands with a roar, illuminating the dark room beautifully with its flickering, glowing flames.

The nerve-racking creature split his hands from its position and dipped his right hand into his mouth, eating the fire in a whole, expertly letting it scorch his snake-like tongue with its deadly heat. He did the same with his left hand, shocking the doubting members of the audience as well as the ones who were agape when a stage light showcased a petit blond dressed as a traditional French waiter who only came on to use an instrument similar to an x-ray to prove that the inhuman man digesting the thinning fire literally was genuine with his infamous talent.

He gained a round of applause, as usual, but he still waited for it to die down before addressing himself as, "the misfit Damien Thorn, the son of Satan who originally came from the seventh layer of Hell," with a smooth grin. Damien gave a final bow to the taken aback audience and then introduced the next acts as standard.

After many entertaining escapologists were restrained, after many acrobats who wore bright leotards that had sparkling embedded diamonds on it had pranced around, after many tamers that controlled wild beasts on frenzies with ease waved 'thank you' and many crazy tall and creepily short clowns scared the audience came and left. The same petit blond, who was known as Phillip Pirrup, flashed a jolly smile targeted at the female and flamboyant gay audience and swiftly proved to the remaining doubting members of the audience that Gregory, a wealthy Englishman, and Christophe, a Frenchman with a mercenary and stage name 'the Mole', were genuine with their act too with the same gadget used before as necessary.

They had both learnt how to swallow swords and other sharp weapons similar to them when they were bored, bored of constantly waiting for midnight so they could raid the White House, collect Obama's confidential files about the never ending war in Afghanistan and steal some expensive possessions as one would do from selfishness. They saw an advertisement about the Hall of Misfits and auditioned for the part, and there they were in the same attire as the head man, Damien Thorn, with the steel bodies of their swords gliding through their upper GI tracts; down their throat, esophagus, into their stomachs and out again.

"Merci," the native who used to live there as an infant thanked the applauding audience who were throwing batches of roses at their feet lovingly in awe, "Merci, zank you for watcheeng."

"Yes, thank you, and without further ado," Gregory started his part of the ritual, his rich accent that was usually considered as posh eroded the clapping with its splendour, only to be rudely interrupted by none other than the head of the Hall of Misfits. "We will gladly introduce the act you have been waiting for, the Adrena–"

The now curious audience started muttering to their friends and families sitting in the red arena seats beside them as they stared at Damien. He ran across the stage, made sure he whispered an errand into Phillip's ears to which he obeyed, and shouted out loud why the disturbance to every one with out hesitation as they were going to be upset no matter the approach. "Kenneth McCormick and Leopold Stotch, better known as the Adrenalini Blonds, are not here."

The inevitable string of moans and groans in disappointment followed. Gregory ran the elegant hand that was not being occupied with a well cut, silver sword with a gleaming brass handle through his slicked back strawberry blond hair were as Christophe, owning the same hairstyle in brown, simply cursed God for being a "beetch."

The Adrenalini Blonds were the star act, it consisted of a series of events which constantly stunned people where ever they would go. They would go to dangerous lengths; jumping with revving motorcycles through small rings of blazing fire with out any protection, swinging on a flying trapeze single-legged with out clutching unto the wire, swapping turns when one would be trapped unto a star and spun around as a target, devil daggers on fire would be thrown at them, etc.

The two became close, you could see it in interviews the unusual proximity of their friendship. Many asked whether they were going out, some comedians even wondered if they were 'butt buddies', they would just laugh and make a subtle joke about it. It was just as like any old rumor, except true as it was later learnt.

Phillip arrived on the stage with a note he had found in their dressing room, searching through their rooms being his order, and his platinum blond hair that framed his round, worried face in a bob bounced up and down with every short lap to Damien.

It was a ripped piece of blank paper, and on it was a paragraph, all written in beautiful, italic black writing, so once Damien had set his eyes on it, he instantly assumed it was the psychic, Marina, who had written it.

He took it out of Phillip's dainty hand, furrowing his thick, black eyebrows as he scanned every word. It was a leaving letter, he quickly realized, and as in respect for the two, he read it silently.

~o.x.o~

'Dear, Hall of Misfits

I, Kenneth McCormick, and my partner, Leopold Stotch, have decided to leave the circus.

We would love to thank Damien Thorn for making this possible for the very both of us, for taking me out of poverty and for helping Leopold get out of the cruel situation with his parents.

In all due respect to you all, it was a thrilling experience, but one can only go so long dealing with little Butters here and his anger issues. I thoroughly enjoyed watching the hot chicks –once Butters wasn't watching, and I will miss my good friends, Christophe d'Lorne and Gregory Yale, dearly.

But Butters and I have to go back, we have talked about this and it is something we have to do.

P.S: There is a girl with a massive rack there, and I definitely have to see that again. I'll literally die if it is even bigger, not even lying, dude.

Yours Sincerely,

Kenneth McCormick'

~o.x.o~

Damien, naturally, threw a fit after comprehending what he had read and how this had to have happened at such an unruly time. If people were not already muttering to each other about what has happened, they were now at the fire being set to everything.

Phillip, having being used to Damien's temper, quickly took hold of the situation and ushered everybody, all with their eyes bugged at the sight, outside before they died. They all huddled together, like penguins in a blizzard, as they scurried out of the building in one piece.

Gregory and Christophe dealt with everybody else in their dressing rooms, heading them outside the emergency exit door and into the trusty truck, the size of a bungalow, which behaved much like a caravan. It was a well painted burnt orange, and inside they had many bedrooms, each with the capacity of two people. It was a rusty vehicle, sure, but it carried the small yet successful circus everywhere it had to go.

They knew Damien would come back pissed off, that was obvious. This was the second time this has ever happened; the first time this had happened, it was to a pair of escapologists who ended up in love before leaving for real, and Gregory and Christophe were their replacements.

Damien had a grudge on people who cared far too much about each other and loved one another, something about being the son of Satan, for some reason him and Phillip Pirrup was an exception -hence why they are engaged. Kenneth and Leopold had broken that rule, it was only a matter of time until he was reporting this to a group of secret detectives and began driving to South Park to find two new misfits.

Mission Impossible

Couple of months later...

Kyle's skinny left hand, both enclosed by soft cotton black gloves, held the brown crook handle of his indigo umbrella firmly as his other hand hurriedly ran the runner up and down its silver tube to shake off the rain droplets covering it. Standing beside him smugly was his unfortunate partner in this newly found case, Eric Cartman, with his feet set slightly apart and husky hands tightly gripping unto both his and Kyle's suit cases, looking like a big-shot in his grey pea coat hugged around his well fed stomach, black suit trousers and matching business shoes.

"Shit, dude..," he muttered under his breath as he tried to dry the umbrella. His gloves were soaked when he had finally finished and buttoned it closed, so he automatically took them off, swapping the umbrella in each hand when doing so, and put them inside the small pockets on the left side of his beige trench coat.

"What's the rush, Jew?" Cartman asked, momentarily surprised he had spent the drive in the cab with out spitting some anti-Semitic insults at his life-long frenemy. The far too familiar glare, the far too familiar dull, fir green eyes stabbing at him like he always had, made him chuckle, naturally deepening the pale freckled scowl in front of him.

"God of Abraham, help me please," he silently prayed to God. Over the seven years after Kyle had left High School and studied law as was ideal, he had developed and improved his friendship with God and often asked for his help whenever possible. This, to him, was one of those times, but was only considered mildly terrible by him so he could still respond through clenched teeth like usual.

"There's no rush, Cartman. I just want... to get this case... done as quickly as possible. And I am not letting you ruin that for me, get it, fat ass?" Kyle seethed, reading the smug expression on his nemesis' face that told him that Cartman meant trouble made him quickly add in the last rhetorical sentence as a warning. His worn out lime green ushanka, no yarmulke as of yet, and ginger coils that were accidentally exposed shook with every scolding nod. His tone of speech would usually scare most people in Eric's shoes, but not him. He simply chuckled again, a cheeky smirk eating its way into his fairly chubby face, and gasped when he realized what he had said.

"Ay! I am not fat, Kahl. I am fucking big boned," he reminded him. It was true, he was no longer considered over-weight; his bone structure was indeed big, he had broad shoulders that now feared people who didn't know him as well as a few others, only for his status, and his torso was much of a body-builder's, wide, muscly and stout.

Kyle sucked in some machine generated air to calm himself down, tired of how ridiculous this situation was, because his GP had warned him about his rising blood pressure and how it was hereditary from his Mother's side so he should be careful, and exhaled coolly before strutting his way down the deserted airport of South Park.

His long umbrella was still being dragged on the floor forcefully by his right hand, leaving a trail of water in its dark umber marble tracks, as his black boots slapped the floor. Eric followed suit of the grumpy man heading towards the air hostess in baby blue uniform who looked bored and tired, an endless list of annoying Kyle further popped up in his mind and made that smirk already on his face grow much more devious.

The news about the missing 'Adrenalini Blonds' hit the news like a manic dance craze, it was written on newspapers everywhere –from the cold, breezy yet fruitful villages to the tropical, hot cities. Days after, Damien Thorn called one of the best, and alive, detectives known to man, Wendy Testaburger and Kyle Broflovski, to try and find them, sending them a photocopied copy of Kenneth's leaving letter through the post as requested. They had a new member in their isolated crew, Eric Cartman, who had only been accepted for being able to solve many cases about highly wanted serial killers and their hiding places -he proclaimed that serial killers had minds like Jews and having being forced in spending time with a Jew most of his life, some of the credit had to go to Kyle for having such a bitchy Mum in the first place and the death of Christ, to which he got a broken nose from. Whether his methods were considered twisted or not did not matter based on his surprising help to society. Although, he did have his motives, mainly to have the ability irritate Kyle and Wendy during his spare time and have a rise to fame, showing off to their faces because people preferred him in interviews only he had accepted. Damien frankly didn't care who did the case, he just wanted to find the two blonds.

Although Eric had joined their crew, he hadn't actually been around with them. It was done online most of the time, understandable once relating to Kyle especially, so it was unusual at first to have read the email Wendy had sent them both about going to Hawaii with each other. Kyle denied, of course, because of the strained relationship he had with Eric and had made well known. But Wendy, being her persuasive, justified self, said she couldn't possibly do it because she was going on her honeymoon with Token Black.

So, Eric focused on Kyle's appearance, which had changed over the past few years he hadn't been in South Park. He was considerably taller, above the 6 foot mark, and his scrawny frame gave him a lanky appearance. That did not matter; picking out on things and saying the opposite actually winded Kyle up the most, which was perfect in Eric's bored and unsatisfied state. "I see you are still as short as ever, Kahl."

Kyle decided not to retort, being already close to the air hostess, and tried to wipe the frown from his face when ever Eric would nudge him with his shoulder from behind and whisper things varying from 'All Jews are short' to 'Kahl is a midget daywalker'. He was already exasperated when he was at the counter, requesting for two tickets to Hawaii.

"Can I have one-I mean two tickets to Hawaii, please," Kyle asked the brunette woman in front of him. She must have been around her 20's, she had barely any wrinkles on her hearty face. Her bright, light green eyes constantly looked between the two and a little smile was on her face when she finished tapping the keys on the white keyboard and handing them their tickets.

"Here you go," she said. She stopped them before they could turn around with both of her fake tanned French manicured hands on their shoulders; when she got their attention, with them turning back at her completely, she put her hands back at her sides and carried on, "can I ask, since the plane isn't leaving until 10 minutes anyway, are you two...?"

Although Kyle understood why she would want to talk, no one ever comes here and she seemed like the bubbly, social, preppy type, he really didn't want to talk to any one right now. He especially didn't want to talk about him and Cartman, so he decided to be quick and blunt with his answer. "We are partners."

Eric looked horrified at this answer, laughed when the oblivious Kyle's face flushed and how he quickly added "...in crime." He only stopped laughing along with the air hostess when his hallucination 'Cupid Me' popped up in front of him and began singing about his secret infatuation with the blushing man beside him.

"You love him," it would sing, "no, I don't," he would reply, "yes, you do" it would sing back, and so forth. It took him a while for him to realize that Kyle and the air hostess, to which he learnt was called Stacey when Kyle said "... and you see, the asshole's Mum is a dirty whore," using his thumb to point at Cartman when referring to him, "there is loads of psychological research on bad up-bringing and how it affects mental health, Stacey."

Before Eric could snap at Kyle for insulting his Mother, and even insult Sheila Broflovski for giving birth to him, Kyle had already left to board on the plane, threatening him that if he didn't hurry the fuck up that he would gladly leave him here alone.

"Damn you, Jew."

'Going down to South Park to find some freaks of mine'

In a large monster truck, one that could carry all the circus acts and also act like a caravan, was Damien Thorn in a the driver's seat.

He plastered an advertisement for the Hall of Misfits on the outside walls of the truck, one were the picture of the enthusiastic 'Adrenalini Blonds' was still in the starry center. Kenneth and Leopold were in studded black biker jackets with their skinny arms thrown around each others necks and had shit-eating grins covering half of their happy faces as they sat on their infamous devil motorcycles –the one with chrome horns was called Kenny (ridden by Leopold) and the one with pretty silver stars on the handles was called Butters (ridden by Kenneth).

In the passenger seat was a slouching Christophe d'Lorne in his dark green t-shirt and brown khaki trousers with its elastic hem tucked lazily into his black combo boots. One calloused, tan hand held his beloved shovel as the other rubbed against the new bandage wrapped tightly around his right fore-arm because of a fight he had with Gregory earlier.

Still chuckling at the grimacing loser was the arrogant, egotistical Gregory Yale who was leaning against the passenger seat on his torso uncomfortably in only his orange shirt with its first two buttons undone as per usual, mud brown skinny jeans and black brogues only his family could afford sluggishly.

"Fuck you, beetch. Zees is not funny!" he snarled, not even minding the tired 'don't you dare start again' facial expression Damien was holding. This is how all of their arguments started.

"It most certainly is, Christina," Gregory simply replied, rolling his wrist and smirking at his dirt-free nails, alternating between bending his fingers unto his palm and looking at them or leaving it straight and revealing his wrinkled knuckles.

Before allowing Christophe to retort, Damien abruptly stopped the vehicle, making it skid slightly on its place in the left side of the Denver road and some people scream from their comfy beds in the truck, to shut the two up.

They both grumbled apologies and straightened themselves properly; Christophe propped his bruised elbow unto the car door ledge and let his open clean palm hold his chin whilst he looked at the boring, rural scenery Colorado had to offer as Gregory went back to what had happened in their ended tour in Paris.

"...yes, but that was rather unorthodox." With every unintended insult that came out of Gregory's mouth made Damien's grip on the grey, leather steering wheel tighten. He was recalling every thing in great detail, it was typical of Gregory to make people feel bad for what they did, like risking people's lives.

"I know, it was in the heat of the moment," he excused himself, only getting a enlightening reply from the brunet pessimist in the other seat.

"'It was only in ze heat of za moment' Now zat is funny, thousands of French people dying. Reminds me of the French Revolution, all 'zose deaths."

"Christina, why are you so depressed? I would love to see you happy," Gregory teasingly sang-sung again, always going back to talk to Christophe to annoy him whenever possible. The thick atmosphere such a heavy conversation had about the news buzzing event was such a mellow dampener, he needed to have some fun.

"Was I depressed when I was forced into my Mother's womb? I was happy not even being here in this forsaken world," he snapped. They all often wondered about his constant yet random complaining about the times in his Mother's womb, but they never replied or questioned it.

Damien simply turned on the radio to change the mood as Phillip, whom he loved to called Pip, was not here to cheer them all up with his jolliness. The song 'Bad Romance' by the iconic pop star, Lady Gaga, was playing on the station. He hummed along with the changing pitch and the repetitive lyrics lowly but still caught the attention of the other two staring at him in amusement.

"Thorn, you're singing," Gregory snickered.

Damien glanced at Gregory, who was flustered along with Christophe from all the guffawing, but averted his focus back to the road, nearing South Park already, and the French verse in the bridge the chart-topping song had.

"I want your love, and I want your revenge

I want your love, I don't wanna be friends

J'ai ton amour et je veux ton revenge

J'ai ton amour, I don't wanna be friends," he sang, absent-mindedly playing with his silver satanic necklaces and the black tee he was wearing with his unoccupied hand, like in a karaoke -that badly. He kept in time with the slow tempo by stomping his black boot against the floor.

"Mon ami! Thorn th-thinks he's Lady Gaga's little m-monstair! Damien, tu es tres rigolo!" Christophe managed to sputter out, clutching at his stomach to help stop the stitches from forming.

Damien stopped the truck, as well as his singing, once again, making both Gregory and Christophe stop laughing from the sudden action. He was about to proceed driving again when he saw the long wooden pole covered in dumps of snow saying 'Welcome to South Park' in front of the moss covered mountains and trees.

"It looks like we are finally here," Gregory said with slight bewilderment.

"...We are finally back in ze town of freaks."

A/N: The introduction of Craig and Tweek comes in the next chapter, isn't that great?

Oh, yes, the subplot includes the possible pairing of Kyle Broflovski and Eric Cartman, also known as 'Kyman'. The will other pairings; some will not blossom, some already have, some are just subtle and are based on your -the reader's- interpretations on their interactions.

~o.x.o~

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