i made a soundtrack: mediafire . com/?d=EOVBSEK1
Should New Year's Parties Be Forgot (And Never Brought to Mind)
January 1st
8:51 AM
Happy New Year! Sry if I woke u. How is evrything? Dad & I just left Boulder. Might swing by mall in Lakewood. ETA: 2-3 hrs. Love u sweetie! :*
Clyde groggily stares at the text longer than he probably should, then writes a response:
K. Everything's fine here. Just hung out with a few of the guys last night. Love you too. (:
He hates lying to his parents, but lately it seems like that's all he does. "Where were you last night?" "Study group." "Are you trying out for baseball next spring?" "Yeah, totally." "Did you just have a giant New Year's party where people may or may not have wrecked our house?" "No, absolutely not. Everything's fine here."
He sets his phone on his nightstand and gets up from his bed all in one motion.
Bad idea.
Something slimy causes him to slip and collapse on the floor.
"Goddamn it!" he says a little too loudly. "Ow."
He looks down.
Vomit.
"Ew!" he adds, trying to get away from the puddle. "Ew, ew, ew, ew, ew…"
He grabs the first article of clothing he can find and attempts to mop it up.
The bed creaks, and Craig's bony, sneering face peers over the edge of the bed.
"You made your puke. Now lie in it." He stretches his arms and yawns.
"I did not…" Clyde stops mid-sentence to yawn as well. "Damn it, why does that always happen?"
"It's psychological. Or something. House explained it once."
"Maybe House can explain that this isn't my puke."
Craig lets out a short, derisive laugh. "You don't remember anything from last night, do you?"
"Yes, I do!" Clyde protests. Craig looks thoroughly unconvinced.
"I remember the beginning…"
December 31st
8:23 PM
"Hey! Hey, everybody! In here! I got something to say!"
When everyone finally gathered around the dining room table (Craig needed convincing), Clyde tapped his wine glass with a spoon to get everyone's attention.
"I've always wanted to do that," he admitted sheepishly before starting his speech.
"I'm gonna get straight to the point."
"That'll be a first," Craig muttered under his breath. Token nudged him in the ribs with his elbow.
Rolling his eyes, Clyde continued. "I just wanted to say thank you for coming to The Fourth Annual Clyde Donovan New Year's Eve Fiesta. After last year's, uh…" he trailed off, trying to think of the right word.
"Cops?" suggested Kevin. A few people chuckled.
"Yeah," Clyde nodded. "I didn't think I was going to even do this. But, since Token and Craig reminded me that the Clyde Donovan New Year's Eve Fiesta is a time-honored tradition… well, here we are."
He took a moment to look around at his guests: Craig, who kept the same bored, contemptuous expression on his face as he did during nearly every event in his life; Token, who looked genuinely happy to be there; Tweek, who still seemed a tad nervous although he had switched to decaf and had been seeing a psychiatrist for the past few months; Jimmy and Timmy, wearing matching New Year's goggles; Jason, sporting a miniature top hat that most likely came in the former two's packet of party favors; and, finally, Craig's cousin Red and her boyfriend Kevin, arms wrapped around each other's waists.
"This is going to sound super corny-"
"Big surprise."
"Shut up!" Token whispered.
"But everything's going to change for us in this next year. We're finally leaving high school. Next year, some of us will be celebrating New Year's Eve thousands of miles away-"
"Uh, no we won't, dude," Token cut in. "Winter Break, remember?"
"Oh. Well, that kind of messes up the rest of my speech. Party resumed."
As everyone filed out of the dining room, Clyde heard Craig mumble, "So it's okay for Token to interrupt-"
"I was providing information. You were just being an asshole."
Craig flipped Token the bird.
Two glasses of red wine and three shrimp cocktail tacos later, Clyde found himself chatting casually with the resident comedian and his… friend? Boyfriend? Heterosexual life bro? Clyde wasn't exactly sure. Nobody was, really.
"So w-w-why did you go with j-j-j-ju j-just inviting a few people over this y-year?"
Jimmy asked, sipping on his glass of Merlot.
"Well, for one thing, I always miss the Star Wars marathon on Spike. I promised myself I wouldn't do that this year."
"Word!" Kevin bellowed from the recliner, a tipsy, giggling Red on his lap.
"Actually, I think I'm done with hosting huge parties here. All it does is make me worry that the cops are going to bust us or that my parents'll find out and ground me 'til the end of time."
"I-in my honest opinion, I think you made a g-great choice in keeping it s-s-small and classy," Jimmy stated matter-of-factly.
"TIMMAY!" Timmy chimed in.
"Me too, dude," Clyde smiled. "Hey, I'm gonna go open another bottle of wine. I'll be right back."
"O-okay."
As he turned around, he almost ran slam into Tweek, who screamed.
"Sorry! Sorry. Hey, uh, whaddup, man?"
The poor guy looked absolutely horrified. "I, uh, I- I- ack!"
"Do you need anything?" Clyde lowered his voice. "Do you want me to ask Craig for a Xanax, or…?"
"I- I- T-there's something I need to tell you," he sputtered, looking down at the floor.
"Uh, okay. What is it?"
Ding dong.
Everyone fell silent.
Clyde froze.
Tweek immediately tried to run, but the brunette caught the end of his shirt and pulled him back to face him.
After looking him dead in the eye for a second, he asked, "Did anyone… happen to, you know, ask you anything?" He pronounced every word slowly and carefully so he wouldn't fly off the handle and punch the spineless neurotic mess of a seventeen-year-old in front of him like he so wanted to do at that moment in time.
"I-I-nh-I-I- THEY GAVE ME COFFEE!" Tweek wailed, bursting into tears. "P-please don't kill me!"
Ding dong.
"Is anyone gonna get that?" Token asked.
As soon as the words left his mouth, someone pounded on the door three times, followed by a jovial but muffled voice yelling, "Knock knock, bitches!"
"Let us in, you black asshole!" barked another. "I'm freezing my goddamn balls off!"
January 1st
8:55 AM
"Whatever."
The bed creaks again and Craig's head disappears.
Clyde finally manages to stand up, walks over to his closet and puts on his bathrobe, noting to start a load of laundry before his parents come back.
He grabs a couple of tissues from the box on the computer desk, wipes off both of his feet, nearly gagging at the putrid stench, and tosses them in the little trash can between the desk and the closet. He then searches for the Yoda bedroom shoes Kevin bought him a couple of Christmases ago and immediately slips them on.
The brunette gets within two steps of the door when Craig breaks into another yawn and asks, "Why am I naked?"
Clyde stops right in his tracks, utterly afraid to turn around.
"Actually, no, don't tell me. I don't care."
Too late. Clyde's already panicking. "But-"
"Don't care!" Craig announced loudly.
"But-"
"Shut it!"
Still unable to get the smell of vomit entirely out of his nostrils, Clyde wanders into the bathroom across the hall.
Not as in shambles as he originally predicted, but still a little gross. He gets a washcloth out of the bottom of the sink and scrubs his face with some of that Bath and Body Works peppermint soap his aunt Linda always buys his family, spending a little extra time around his nose. He briefly debates on whether or not to brush his teeth (considering his breath could probably take out a small insect or two) but decides he really needs to get a move on with cleaning and gargles some Listerine instead.
He treads halfway down the staircase before he gets a whiff of something absolutely marvelous in the air.
Coffee.
"Tweek," he breathed.
He knows he should be more concerned that his friend is going directly against his psychiatrist's orders, but the excitement of not having to do this by himself (and caffeine! Glorious caffeine!) overpowers most of the emotions going on inside his head at the moment.
Dashing down the remainder of the stairs and down the hall to the dining room, he pauses in the kitchen doorway to spot the twitchy blond humming to himself while adding half-n-half to his mug. He kind of feels bad for eventually having to ruin the one moment Tweek's actually sort of happy, but-
"Hey, man," booms a deep voice in the far left of the room. "Happy New Year."
Tweek snaps around, spots Clyde, and shrieks.
"Oh no! This is it! I'm gonna die! Help! AAAAHHHHH!"
Clyde hasn't even walked through the door yet.
"Game over, man! Game over-"
"TWEEK!" Token yells in an voice that throws both of them off-guard. "Calm down!"
Clyde and Tweek stare at each other uneasily, then over at Token. This is when Clyde notices his busted lip and a black… uh, blacker eye.
"What happened to you?"
"Long story."
Clyde sees that Tweek still looks totally scared shitless. "I'm not gonna kill you, dude." He tries to use his most non-threatening tone of voice. "I'm not mad at you, I'm mad at the situation…" Which wouldn't have happened if you weren't so easily swayed by caffeinated beverages, he thinks. And the fact that I'm a total fucking doormat…
"So," Token stretches his arms. "Tweek and I already got up all the cups and shit we saw and put them in a trash bag which is now in the trunk of my car."
"Can I ask for your hand in marriage?" Clyde kneels down on one knee. "Or will Jenny pop out from behind me with a machete and scream, 'TOKEN IS MINE!'"
"You might wanna check…" Token laughs, then abruptly says, "Actually, no, my maid saw her hiding in the bushes the day after Christmas and I think her parents finally committed her."
"Yeah, I remember you posting that on Facebook," Clyde notes. "So, what else is there to do?"
"Well…" Token pauses, looking a tad apprehensive.
"Well, what?"
"I'll have to show you. Hey, Tweek?"
"Y-yeah, man?"
"I think we're going to need another pot of coffee."
They sit around with their mugs discussing the best way to get everything done. A decision is reached that Token and Clyde will work on the living room while Tweek checks upstairs for anything that might seem out of place.
As soon as they walk into the hallway between the second bathroom and kitchen, Clyde screams, "Holy mother of SHIT! WHAT THE FUCK!"
Blood. Blood everywhere.
Blood on the floor, blood on the wall. Blood on his mom's favorite nativity scene.
"Dude, shut up!" Token muffles Clyde's mouth with his hand. "You're gonna upset Tweek again! I already had enough of a time trying to get him to take all his meds and the coffee just-"
Clyde pulls his hand away. "Tweek is at LEAST a hundred and fifty feet away, so-"
"The guy hears like a fucking bat, I'm telling you-"
"A-are you guys getting brutally murdered by an escaped convict?" Tweek yells from the kitchen.
"Everything's fine!" Clyde hollers back, then whispers to Token, "Did somebody die last night?"
"What? No!" He snaps back. "Uh… This was my fault."
"How? How is this your fault? If I could've grown a pair and fucking told everyone to leave, then-"
"It's a long story. I'll tell you later."
"No, you'll tell me now."
"No, I'll tell you after you tell me how the fuck you went from Debbie Downer to… Simon Stimson."
Clyde sighs. "Okay, fine… but who's Simon Stimson?"
"Don't worry about it. Now, I saw some Chipotlaway in the basement last night. Do you think that'll work on Baby Jesus?"
December 31st
9:48 PM
It was madness.
Before he knew it there was Beer Pong in the dining room, Quarters in the kitchen, a keg on the deck, and equal parts Xbox and a good portion of the senior class grinding to Kenny's iPod playlist designated for these events in the living room. The music wasn't too loud, though, and people knew from Clyde's previous parties to either walk or carpool as to not raise any major suspicions to police cars that may be on patrol. The neighbor situation wasn't anything to be worried about, he reminded himself. The elderly couple on his left were on a cruise in the Bahamas (the only reason he remembered this was because the old lady who kept calling him Carl paid him fifty bucks to water her plants), the Harrisons went to see family in Utah, and both Kevin's and Craig's parents were at Mr. Mackey's New Year's party. From his past experiences as a party host, the guests will probably begin to leave after midnight; the last car somewhere between 1:30 and 2. Sure, he was drunk all those times (and ended up passing out not long after), but this year, since this was kind of forced upon him, he was going to get a head start on cleaning and not get the last of the trash out mere minutes before his parents pulled into the driveway.
Still, Clyde couldn't shake the utter helplessness he felt as he sat on the sofa and halfheartedly witnessed everything going on around him. And, soon enough, his head became consumed by the massive tug-of-war that kept weighing the pros and cons of stopping everything and screaming until everyone went home. Sure, it would take less time to clean up, therefore lowering the risk of his parents finding out and his stress level, but nothing short of death would stop his peers from ridiculing him about it. He was completely aware that most of the "in" crowd, with the exception of Token, only tolerated him because these parties were considered a legend in their own right. If he did do it, he'd have to face the fact that everyone would call him "The Party Pooper" well into their 50th reunion. Hell, they might not even invite him to the reunions because they'll assume he'll tell everyone to go home. Clyde wasn't sure he could handle that.
His train of thought was cut short by two of the ex-Raisins-now Hooters-girls sloppily making out.
On top of him.
He probably should have been… enthused? Aroused? The exact opposite of how he felt at that moment in time? But alas, he just sat there. Annoyed, embarrassed and surrounded by a chorus of "YEAH"s and "GET SOME"s.
Thankfully, after what seemed like an eternity, a pudgy arm swatted at them to go away.
"I can't see the fuckin' TV!"
His presence scaring off a freshman playing Call of Duty, Cartman grabbed a controller and plopped down beside him.
"You seem unhappy, Clyde," he slurred as he successfully shot down a helicopter with an M-16. "Good."
"So is that why you crashed my party?" Clyde wondered out loud. "To drink all the booze and play my video games?"
"I brought my own booze, thank you very much." Hic. "Oh, and, by the way, I finished off the lemon bars."
"Aw, man…"
"And the shrimp ring-"
"Aw, man!"
"But you can keep the eggnog." Hic. "I fuckin' hate eggnog, seriously…"
The two sat in silence for what was probably only five minutes, but to Clyde it felt much, much longer.
"You guys!" yelled Vernon Trumski from the dining room. "Everyone c'mere and look at Butters!"
The fatass promptly bolted from the couch, shouting, "Who the fuck are you? It's my job to announce to everyone when Butters does something stu-"
From what Clyde could deduce, whatever it was shut him the hell up.
Even so, he didn't want to look. He wasn't going to look. Butters might have shot a double rainbow out his ass for all he cared.
If it weren't for Kenny, who sprinted in, took Clyde by the arm and practically forced him into the dining room, he would have been successful.
And there was Butters. On the table.
Dancing.
As Baby New Year.
"I like that boom boom pow, them chickens jackin' my style…"
"Okay, that's it!"
After the Tweek incident, Clyde had tried extremely hard to not get angry again, even if his plans of reenacting the Luke/Vader lightsaber fight in The Empire Strikes Back with Kevin and gorging himself on hors d'oeuvres until he goes into a food coma were thwarted by everyone and their goddamn brother coming over with what seemed like the entire contents of the liquor store.
But this… really was it. He was mad as hell and not going to take it anymore.
"I'm going to count to three. If somebody doesn't take responsibility for giving Butters alcohol and an adult diaper, I am ending this party, SO HELP ME GOD!"
If it weren't for the music, one could hear a pin drop.
He held up his finger.
"One…"
And another.
"Two…"
"It was me."
Clyde spun around.
Kenny.
Of fucking course.
"C-can I talk to you over there for a second?" he pointed to the kitchen.
Kenny silently complied.
"OUT," Clyde yelled at a couple of juniors making out next to the refrigerator. After they left the room, glaring, he slammed the door shut.
"Are you going to kick my ass or something?" the blond sneered. "'Cause I can totally take you, dude."
"You wanna bet on that?" Clyde snarled, taking him by the scuff of this shirt and smashing him against the wall.
"Careful." That asshole actually had the nerve to smirk and whisper, "Any more of this and I might..." He shifted his eyes to the side and back, then winked.
"The fuck?"
If that was his way of getting Clyde to let go of him, it definitely worked.
"Are you seriously hitting on me not even two weeks after you-"
"Look, I don't know who gave Butters the eggnog. I just said I did so you wouldn't have to send everyone home. I mean, chances are, he probably got a cup himself thinking it was non-alcoholic."
After mulling it over in his head for a bit, Clyde admitted, "Yeah, I guess that makes sense. And the costume?"
"Okay, that was actually me," he admitted. "To be fair, I was going to dress up the first person who passed out as Father Time, but… someone already found Tweek-"
"What?"
"Don't worry, man. Stan, Kyle and I already put him in the guest room with a glass of water and a puke bucket. Jeez. I should check and see if he's still alive, 'cause it sounds like you're channeling his spirit or something…"
"I know I'm being a major buzzkill right now, but my parents are coming back in the morning and-"
"Relax. You know what? I'll stay behind and help you clean up."
"Wait, what?" It sounded too good to be true. "How do I know you're not lying?"
Kenny offered him his hand. "Swear on my life."
It felt like a giant weight had been lifted off of his chest. "Deal."
"On one condition, though." Kenny conjured a bottle of Bacardi from the cooler beside the fridge and poured some in a shot glass he pulled out of his hoodie pocket. "You have to quit being such a tightwad and loosen up some. I mean, this is the last New Year's party of our high school careers. And, like, I'm probably not gonna be here next year-"
"You're not?"
"Southern Cal, dude." He grinned. "Got the letter two days ago."
"Holy shit, that's awesome!" Clyde clapped him on the shoulder. "Your parents must be really proud of you."
"I guess my mom is, or… something. I dunno. They have their own weird way of showing it." Kenny shrugged. "So, what about you?"
"Uh… Boulder. Kinda forced into it by the old man." He chuckled nervously.
"Ah," Kenny nodded, but it was kind of obvious he had no idea how to respond to that.
"I mean, I'm probably not hearing back until February, but, you know… fingers crossed."
"Yeah."
They stood there awkwardly for a couple of seconds.
"So… about that loosening up-"
"I'm not having sex with you, Kenny."
"I know." he slid the shot of Bacardi over to Clyde. "Drink this."
January 1st
9:17 AM
"I haven't seen Kenny at all this morning," Token says, scrubbing the door to the second bathroom.
"I knew he was going to do this! I fucking knew it and I still trusted the son of a bitch! 'Swear on my life…' Why am I such a pushover?" Clyde scrubs the spot on the floor he's working on extra hard, pretending it's Kenny's head.
"Come on, dude, don't be that hard on yourself. Kenny's just like that sometimes."
"All the time," Clyde corrects.
"I think it's 'cause he spends so much time hanging out with Cartman." He finishes the door and begins to go to town on the carpet in front of it.
"So, like, I told you my story. Can someone hold up their end of the bargain for me just once?"
"I'm warning you, though. You're either going to be so bummed you missed this, or so incredibly pissed that you're going to have to clean my blood out of the carpet."
"Dude, there is no way in Hell I'm assaulting you if it means I have to do this shit all over again."
December 31st
11:48 PM
I'm not that drunk, Token thought. And I hate this song.
Yet there he was, yelling the chorus of "Shots" along with all of his- no, not friends. Not all of them. Actually, he had no idea who some of these people were. Did they even go to Park County?
Making his way from the dining room to the hallway, he tried to think of a spot where it wasn't so damn crowded.
The basement? No, there's probably a giant bong circle down there, recalling that Towelie had managed to sneak in not long ago.
Upstairs? No, there's probably people having sex in all of the rooms. Except for the guest room. Hopefully.
Token subsequently made a mental note to someday punch Kenny for introducing Tweek to the magic and wonder of Kahlua. ("It's coffee… but it's alcohol!" he had said. Perfect words to coax a relapsed caffeine addict into getting shitfaced.) And to punch him again for somehow convincing Clyde it was okay to get blackout drunk when he parents could arrive back any time tomorrow.
He was busy standing in the middle of the hallway picturing a bruised, maimed Kenny when some douchebag in a green cardigan pushed Wendy directly in front of him, spilling her glass of wine all over his sweater.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" she cried.
"What are you apologizing for? If it weren't for that-" He paused to examine the stain. "Oh, it was just white wine. I just need to go to the basement and put some Shout on it."
The volume of the crowd went down significantly after "Shots" ended and the music changed to some song everyone was tired of hearing yet still remained in the Billboard Hot 100.
"Well, let me help you. I still feel really bad 'cause I wasn't paying attention, and I tripped, and I know Lola just bought you that sweater for Christmas-"
"Wendy," he interrupted by putting his hand on her shoulder. "Wendy. It's fine."
"But can I still come with you?" she asked, going slightly pink in the face. "I mean, Bebe went to go talk to Craig, and Red and Kevin left like an hour ago, and Annie-"
"Okay," he agreed. "I kind of lost the people I was hanging out with, too, so…"
As they descended the stairs, Token was pleasantly surprised to find out there was no giant bong circle. Just Towelie sitting in a corner taking hits from it every now and then. The couple of juniors he saw run out of the kitchen an hour or so ago seemed to have relocated here, too.
"Wait," Token wondered as he began to search the shelf above the washing machine for the stain remover. "How do you know Lola bought me this?"
"I was with her when she picked it out."
"Ah."
While he sprayed his sweater, Wendy balanced herself against the dryer and sipped her wine. "So, like, what are you guys now?"
He gave her a bemused look. "I'm not entirely sure what you mean by that."
"You know…" she paused to down the last of the glass. "Are you dating? Fucking? Just close friends who happen to buy each other relatively expensive gifts? I mean, I've asked her, and she sure as hell won't tell me…"
"I tutor her," he said quietly. "Do I have anything on the back?"
"No, you're clear," she reassured him. "She didn't even say that much. Like, that's what's wrong with students nowadays. If they're not afraid to ask for help, they're afraid someone's going to think less of them if word gets out that they do."
"Mhm," he agreed, secretly hoping Wendy wouldn't continue this subject any further. It's not that he didn't appreciate it when she hopped on the soapbox, because she's guaranteed to make an excellent point on whatever she happened to be talking about, but it was New Year's Eve. And she was drunk. Everyone was drunk. (or, in Towelie's case, high.)
"And that's why I'm especially concerned about this year's SGA elections, even if seniors aren't allowed to vote in it."
Token himself was Senior Class President, but all he had been required to do by the bylaws was go to every meeting and event, introduce Wendy at school-wide assemblies, make a speech at Graduation and coordinate reunions when the time comes. Sometimes he wondered if she actually thought she was President of the nation instead of the student body.
"YOU GUYS!" shouted Clyde from above. "IT'S ALMOST MIDNIGHT!"
The music stopped, and Token deduced that someone turned it to the replay of the ball drop.
"Do you wanna go back up there, or…?"
"Yeah, sure." Wendy ogled her glass. "I think they're gonna do champagne."
When they arrived back upstairs, and after Wendy made a beeline for the kitchen, Token couldn't help but notice it looked like Timmy and Jimmy brought enough New Year's goggles and top hats for everyone.
Wait… were they in on it, too?
Token pushed the notion out of his mind. He hadn't seen either of them for at least two hours and assumed they either went home or…
"W-w-w-we went to the s-store," Jimmy popped up, scaring the living daylights out of him.
"Y'know, I was literally just wondering about th-"
"TIMMAY!" Timmy exclaimed, passing Token a pair of goggles identical to his.
"Thanks, guys," he smiled.
The trio moved over to Wendy, trying to multi-task between downing a Jello shot and pouring herself another glass of Pinot Grigio on the kitchen island. "Glasses or t-top hat?"
"I'll grab one of these," she said a little too loudly, selecting the latter choice and placing it on her head. "Thank you, Jimmy." She stood on her tiptoes to give him a peck on the cheek.
"Timmay Timmay, Timmay, Timmay Timmay Timmay…" the boy on her right grumbled.
"Of course!" she bellowed.
Like she understood him, Token sarcastically remarked in his head.
But, sure enough, Wendy bent down and gave him a peck as well. His face flushed, started moving his hands excitedly and cried, "Timmay! Timmay!" as Jimmy escorted him to the next non-decorated partygoer they spotted.
"ONE MINUTE!" Clyde shouted from the living room.
"They're so adorable," she gushed, right before she tripped on one of her shoelaces. Had Token not caught her before she hit the ground, she probably would have broken something. Not that she cared, though. In his arms or not, he had a suspicion she would have erupted in a fit of laughter either way.
"Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," she said between guffaws. "Oh, hey, I was gonna ask you, do you want one of these?" She pointed at the dozen-odd little lime green cups in the middle of the kitchen table.
"Nah." He shook his head while he attempted to stand her back up. "I think you've had enough for the both of us."
"I wanna go to there," Wendy slurred, pointing to the living room.
"You're not gonna fall, right?" Or throw up on me, Token added in his head.
"Twenty-nine! Twenty-eight! Twenty-seven!"
"Can you hold this?" she handed him her glass of wine, slid off her shoes and placed them in the messenger bag around her neck.
"Twenty-six! Twenty-five! Twenty-four! Twenty-three!"
"Okay, let's go!" Wendy took back the glass and made her way forward, a little off-kilter, but still able to walk.
"Twenty-two! Twenty-one! Twenty!"
"Hay, do y'all want champagne?" Millie cut in front of Token.
"Nineteen! Eighteen! Seventeen! Sixteen!"
He grabbed two glasses, quickly muttered a "Thank you" to Millie and carefully darted through the cheering crowd to catch up with Wendy.
"Fifteen! Fourteen! Thirteen! Twelve! Eleven!"
"I shouldn't be fueling your worst hangover ever, but…"
"What?" Wendy yelled, taking the champagne from him in her free hand.
"Nothing," he replied.
"Ten! Nine! Eight!"
She took a rather large gulp of her wine, prompting Token to change his mind, take it from her and set it on one of the end tables. "You're going to make yourself sick."
"Seven! Six!"
"But Tokennn…" she started to whine, but immediately began to chime in with the crowd.
"Five! Four! Three! Two! ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!"
It sounded as if the volume amplified tenfold throughout the house. As Wendy drained her champagne, Token could barely make out someone starting to play Auld Lang Syne over the speakers. The cheering narrowed out a little, though, as various couples rang in the New Year with a kiss. Kenny and the Hooters girl who would never shut up; Bradley Biggle and the redheaded girl in his AP Calc class; Heidi and her stupid boyfriend who had the locker next to his (yet somehow blocked his locker every day between 7th and 8th with their PDA); and a few others he didn't recognize. The ones who didn't have someone either drank their drinks or blew noisemakers.
Eventually his eyes drifted over to Cartman on the sofa. Arms crossed, bitter and absolutely alone in the world. He never particularly liked the guy (actually, that's quite the understatement; he rather detested him), but Token couldn't help but feel the tiniest smidge of pity for him.
Before Token could protest, Wendy flung her arms around him and smooched him hard on the lips.
Token abruptly pushed her away. "I can't do this."
"W-what?" she stammered. "But-but-but I-I thought you liked me."
"Believe me, I do, it's just that… you're drunk."
Not exactly the right thing to say. "So are you!"
"Not enough to take advantage of you! You're always going on and on about that, and-"
"Since when is kissing me back considered taking advantage? If you don't remember what happened thirty seconds ago, I was the one who kissed you!"
She took back her wine glass and stomped towards the kitchen.
"Wendy…" He followed.
She whipped around. "I finally get the nerve to start talking to you again-"
"Whoa, whoa. What do you mean, finally?"
"Forget it. Forget I even said anything. I need a drink."
Token pointed at the glass in her hand. "You have a drink."
"Something that doesn't taste like feet soaked in vinegar!"
She resumed her march towards the kitchen.
Token sighed and started to follow her again, worried she was going to fall over or do something equally painful and embarrassing.
That is, until someone tapped him on the shoulder.
Growing up watching a multitude of teen party movies, Token should have learned that when someone taps another on the shoulder, there is usually a punch waiting for them on the other side.
Should have being the key words, here.
He turned around expecting someone to say his shirt wasn't tucked in, but his face ended up saying hello to Cartman's right hook.
"You!" Punch. "Asshole!" Punch.
He could taste blood.
"FIIIIIIIIIGHT!" Vernon Trumski cried.
In an act of drunken stupor, total stupidity or divine intervention (Token reckoned it had something to do all three), Cartman spun around and screamed at the sophomore, "What the fuck did I tell you, dude?"
Whatever it was, it gave Token enough time to do a running jump onto Cartman's back, slam his head on the bathroom door, tackle him to the ground and beat him mercilessly.
A crowd started to circle around them. Cartman was already out cold, but all of the times Token had had to deal with his shit over the past twelve years flashed through his mind. The band. The Tenorman incident. The Cthulhu disaster. Every single time that fucking evil obese pig made fun of his race. Trying to kill the Jews on a weekly basis. Calling Wendy "Testicleburger" in middle school, which caught on like wildfire for a few months…
"Stop it, you're gonna kill him!" Wendy cried.
"GOOD!" he heard himself say. "Doesn't everyone already want him dead?"
"Yes, but not like this!"
He paused mid-punch.
Hey, he thought. Maybe I am that drunk.
"You're right."
He stood up, brushed the dirt off his clothes, and went to examine his face in the mirror hanging in the hallway.
"Okay, okay, fight's over, everyone!" He turned around to spot Kyle shepherding everyone away from the scene. "Move along, nothing to see here!"
Kenny dodged a couple of freshmen in his way to put a fake wizard beard on Cartman's bludgeoned, bloody face. After catching Token's eye, he grinned, put a finger up to his own lips and whispered, "Shhh."
Okay, I guess Kenny barging in and taking over wasn't the complete disaster I thought it was going to be, he mentally noted. Well, minus this shit, he added, eyeing the walls.
"Come on." Kyle ushered a stumbling Stan over to the dining room table.
"But-but I wanted to see the ass-kicking!" he gestured with his arm back towards the hallway.
"You did see the ass-kicking," Kyle said, resembling a frustrated babysitter with a precocious toddler under his wing.
Stan cocked his head to the side in confusion. "I did?"
The redhead sighed. "Come on, let's go home."
"No! I wanna stay!"
"Your mom's coming back from Mackey's soon…"
"Fuck you! You're not my real dad! You're a piece of shit!" Stan hollered.
"Stan!"
He only just noticed his ex-girlfriend leaning across the table from him.
"Wendy!"
Changing gears completely, he ran over to the other side and pulled her into an embrace.
"You look so goddamn hot tonight…" she whispered.
"Yeah… You too, babe."
Without further ado, they began to make out.
Token could have sworn Kyle had a small glint of hurt in his eyes, but whatever it was quickly transpired into him rolling his eyes and muttering, "Birds of a feather…"
January 1st
9:41 AM
"Called it."
The two of them pause their work see a fully clothed Craig standing at the foot of the stairs.
"Called what?"
"Broflovski being in love in Marsh."
"Uh, sorry to burst your bubble," Token says, spraying more Chipotlaway on his rag, "but… the only person who didn't already see that was Stevie Wonder."
"Is that my Jedi shirt?" Clyde blurted out.
"No, I finally decided to get with the program and buy shit three sizes too large," he drawled. "Besides, someone used my shirt to wipe up their puke…"
"I told you, that's not my puke!"
"And if eggs came out of my ass, I'd be a chicken."
December 31st
11:51PM
"I hate this song."
"You hate everything," Bebe noted.
"I used to like it-"
"Then God said, 'Whoops, Craig enjoys something. Let's ruin it by making it mainstream.'"
"You're learning." He smirked. "Good."
"H-h-hey, Craig?" Jimmy stuttered as he and Timmy approached them. "Do you w-want a hat or a pair of g-g-g-g… g-g-glasses?"
"Gimme a hat, dude."
Timmy tossed him one and he placed it on top of his chullo.
"Now my hat has a hat," he quipped.
"B-B-Bebe?"
"Eh…" she cocked her head to the side. "A hat, too, please."
"Timmah!"
After they left, Craig had to ask: "Why aren't you off gallivanting with… shit, I had something for him…"
"A boner?" Bebe snickered, pointing at his pants.
He looked down to check. "It's the hoodie. God. Shut up." That only made her laugh more. "This just in: high school senior transforms into 12-year-old after drinking Bartles and Jaymes. More at 11." Bebe stopped laughing and scoffed. "But in answer to your question, no. Broflovski's not my type."
"I know. You're into Aryan guys with more STDs than the line at the Health Department-"
"Fuck you." He scowled. "Not funny."
"Yes, it is."
"Can we please not talk about…" He trailed off, becoming more interested in his Pepsi and Grey Goose.
"YOU GUYS!" Clyde's sloppy, drunken voice rang out from the dining room. "IT'S ALMOST MIDNIGHT!"
Someone turned off the music, while another turned the TV to the Ryan Secrest repeat.
"Okay. Kyle and I broke up. Is that a good subject change?"
If Craig was capable of expressing his emotions like everyone else, he probably would have done a spittake. Instead, he simply swallowed and put his cup down on the stair above him.
"Oh." He wasn't sure of what else to say, other than, "That sucks."
Bebe shrugged. "Can't say it doesn't hurt, but…" she chugged the rest of the wine cooler in her left hand and placed it next to her.
"Do you wanna… y'know… talk about it?"
"Not really."
"Good, 'cause I was just being polite."
"I was unaware you were capable of politeness." she reached into her purse, pulled out her keys and used her bottle opener keychain on the top of the wine cooler in her right. "Just goes to show you do learn something new everyday."
"That and… God, am I really saying this? I don't want you to get depressed over stupid gaywad Broflovski. I mean, I know you guys dated for, like…"
"Two years."
"Yeah. That."
"We hooked up at one of these, actually," she said rather gloomily.
"My point was," Craig continued, "is that he's a fag. He just hasn't realized it yet because he's pretending like the raging stiffie he has for Marsh doesn't exist. And as soon as he figures it out, he'll start acting odd around him until finally they…" He did a hand gesture that made Bebe giggle uncontrollably.
"I appreciate your concern… as weird and unexpected as it is… but I don't think I'll be dyeing my hair black and hanging out at Denny's anytime soon."
They sat in silence for a minute, with the occasional jest when someone in the crowd did something stupid, until-
"Excuse us."
They got out of the way for Henrietta, coming down the stairs hand-in-hand with some guy in a leather jacket and a bright blue Mohawk.
"Hey, Mike!" Bebe waved at him cheerfully. He ignored her.
After they sat back down, Craig asked, "Did I ever tell you about the time that one Goth tried to hit on me?"
"What?" she covered her mouth with her hand. "Wait, the one with the pimp cane or the one who wouldn't know how to touch up his roots if it hit him with a… pimp… cane…?"
"Neither. The middle schooler."
Her jaw dropped. "Nuh-uh."
"Uh-huh," he said, imitating her surprise.
Clyde bolted in, glanced at the TV and yelled towards the rest of the house, "ONE MINUTE!"
"That's disgusting," Bebe said under her breath.
"Completely. Who knew people other than politicians used that hand under the bathroom stall signal thing?"
"I was talking about Clyde, but that answers that, too." She finished the other wine cooler. "You know, he could have been asking for toilet paper."
"Then he should have said, 'Hey, bro, can I borrow a roll of toilet paper?'"
"Thirty! Twenty-nine! Twenty-eight!"
"He's a Goth, Craig. I'm sure he thinks talking is too conformist for him."
"Twenty-seven! Twenty-six! Twenty-five!"
"Hmm. Point taken."
"Twenty-four! Twenty-three! Twenty-two!"
"Will this year just fucking end already?" Bebe yelled over the crowd.
"Twenty-one! Twenty!"
"Seriously," Craig muttered.
"Nineteen! Eighteen! Seventeen!"
His eyes lingered to the left, where Kenny and whoever the fuck he was going to fuck were stationed, watching the TV and chanting along with everyone else. He knew he should be happy that he was happy, and that there are other fish in the sea, and all that other cliché bullshit Clyde told him two weeks ago after Kenny ended their mutual get-high-and-fool-around-friends-with-benefits-whatever-thing to seriously pursue some chick (who ended up turning him down), but, for the first time in his life, it crossed his mind that maybe he was in love. Or something.
"Ten! Nine! Eight!"
He then started to wonder what the hell was in this drink that was making him feel feelings. Because if there's one thing everybody knows, it's that Craig Tucker's an emotionless robot, he thought bitterly. No. No. You are not going to cry, you asshole.
"Seven! Six! Five!"
"Okay, now there are tears coming out of my eyes," he caught himself saying aloud.
"Four, Three, Two, ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!"
The two remained seated as everyone else cheered and a good number of couples kissed, including Kenny and that girl-Fiat? Audi? Porsche? Yeah. That one.
Someone started playing Auld Lang Syne over the speakers. Craig pulled his feet up a stair and put his face to his knees, which led to Bebe leaning over and whispering in his ear, "Lemme guess. You hate this song."
"No," he said hoarsely, not sitting up, but turning his head to the left so he could covertly spy on Kenny. "Well- yeah, I do, but I can tolerate hearing it once or twice a year."
Craig was pretty sure Bebe followed his gaze, because the next thing she said was, "So, uh, do you wanna kiss or something?"
He had to raise his head and see for himself if she was being serious, then made a sharp noise between a sob and a laugh when she raised her eyebrows in mock suggestion.
"Joke of the night award goes to Bebe Stevens."
He couldn't help but turn back in the direction of his kind-of-maybe-but-not-really-ex, (making a mental note that this the only time he was ever going to allow himself to be a creep), only to find that Kenny was already staring directly at him.
So he did the completely rational and totally-not-wrong-in-any-way thing of kissing Bebe.
She was taken aback at first, but quickly realized why he was doing it and cupped the side of his face with her hand to make it seem more believable.
Thankfully, it only lasted for about ten seconds before Vernon Trumski shouted "FIIIIIIIGHT!" and they hastily stopped, prompting both of them to utter some variation of "Let's never do that again."
"Yeah, I kind of feel really sick right now."
She looked a little hurt. "Was it that bad?"
"Not the making out, no."
"Oh. Right. The K-word."
"Yeah, the K-word," he repeated. "Seriously, I think I'm gonna ralph."
"…Are you sure it wasn't me?"
He stood up. "I don't necessarily bat for your team, so to speak, but I've kissed worse."
She stood as well. "Really? Who?"
Craig shifted his eyes in the direction Kenny was in, but noticed he had left the spot. "Don Juan DeDouchebag."
"He's not that bad…"
"How do you know?"
Bebe hesitated for a moment, but spat it out anyway: "I… may have made out with him once… at Kyle's bar mitzvah… and it's been, what, like, four and a half years since then? You'd think he would have leveled up by now… just sayin.'"
"He uses too much tongue."
"Ah. Well, I'm gonna go check out that fight."
"And I'm going to try and not get sick on everything." He went up a couple of steps before turning around and adding, "If I die a vomit-filled death tonight, I just want you to know…" he paused solely for ironic effect. "Happy End of the Holiday Season."
"Aye, aye." Bebe gave him a half-assed salute and walked down the rest of the stairs.
As he approached the upstairs landing, Craig suddenly remembered something else and turned around once again.
"Captain Jewmerang!" he shouted.
Bebe craned her neck to look at him without going back up a step. "What?"
"That thing I was going to call Broflovski but then I forgot. Captain Jewmerang."
She stared blankly. "I don't get it."
"Like Captain Boomerang."
"Who the hell's Captain Boomerang?"
"Nevermind."
Craig said nothing to the random couple he discovered mid-blowjob in Clyde's room. He simply stood in the doorframe as he watched them scurry around, trying to find their belongings, and moved out of the way when they ran out. He figured the reason why he felt so nauseated was because of the vodka, although drinking copious amounts of alcoholic beverages had never, ever affected him in any way, shape or form until this night. Even so, he resolved right then and there to never drink Grey Goose again.
The bed made a weird squeak as he laid down. He rummaged through his hoodie pocket to find his phone, plugged both earbuds in, and put it on shuffle.
No, that song was too loud.
That one, too soft.
Too happy.
Too sad.
Too long.
Too short.
Eventually he just gave up and yanked the earbuds out in frustration.
For the first time in his life, Craig didn't want to be left alone. He wanted Kenny to somehow bust through that door with an ounce and ask if he wanted to go see which Daft Punk album synced up better with 2001. Or, you know, announce that he's seen the error of his ways and wants to try a serious commitment with him. Something like that. Either would have sufficed.
But, alas. Nothing.
As he expected.
He put the earbuds in again, found his sleep playlist and scooted closer to the wall.
The next thing he knew, he heard the door burst open.
"Craig?"
It couldn't be. Please let it be…
It wasn't.
He rolled over on his left to see a very drunk, very clumsy Clyde fumble through the door.
"What time is…" Craig mumbled, glancing at his phone only to notice the battery had died, then squinted to check the time on Clyde's cheap iHome knockoff.
2:21.
He wasn't even aware he had nodded off.
"Craig!" Clyde shouted gleefully, running forward with his arms up as if to hug him. "Craig! My bro! My br-" The mattress stopped him from going any further, making him fall over onto the bed across Craig's legs.
"Get. Off. Of. Me."
He attempted to do so, but was unable.
"Ugh…" Craig grumbled as he struggled to remove his legs from under him. "Making me do shit…"
After he had finally gotten Clyde up, steered him in the right direction, and laid him face up on the bed, he leapt over him to return to his former spot. As he made himself comfortable again and rolled over facing the wall, he heard Clyde babble, "Goodnight, Craig."
"Goodnight, asshole," Craig muttered.
And just as he began to drift off to sleep again, the sound of obnoxious crying jolted him awake.
"What now?" he grunted, turning to face his blubbering bedmate.
"I missed Star Wars!" he sobbed.
Craig was beginning to get a migraine. "They show it all night."
"But it's two in the morning. They've already started to replay the unspeakable films."
"You have them on DVD, too. Like, three copies. Each."
For some reason, that only made him cry harder.
"It's not the same! The-they put the commercials there so people can go get more food or take a piss or-"
"You're just making excuses. Now shut up and go to sleep. You have to get up early."
"And my parents!" Clyde whined. "My parents are gonna fucking kill me!"
"Yeah. Probably. But if they do, I call dibs on all your movies."
"…A-all of them?"
"Except your porn. I'll give those to, like-" Craig stopped himself from saying 'Kenny.' "Tweek. As a joke."
He sniffled. "Even the weird hentai shit?"
"Especially the weird hentai shit."
He finally began to settle down.
Craig reached over Clyde to put his phone on the base of the iHome knockoff.
"Damn, what is it with all the gay guys tryin' to get with this tonight?"
"What the-" Craig couldn't stop the look of bewilderment on his face. "Explain. Please."
"First Kenny, now you-"
"First of all…" He couldn't bring himself to say the name. "he isn't gay. Secondly, does it look like I'm trying to- He hit on you?"
"Yeah. At least, I think so…"
He took his earbuds out of his phone, hit the play button and retreated back to his spot.
"Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck balls."
"Y-you're not mad at me, are you?"
"Why would I be mad at you?" Craig said, his voice breaking. "It's not your fault he's a-a-a conniving dick who'd fuck anything if it had the proper-"
God fucking damn it, not again.
"Aw, come on, Craig, don't cry…" Clyde began to wrap his arm around him.
"Don't-" It was too late. "Okay, fine. But just this once. Next time you do this, I swear to God I'm kicking you in the nuts."
"You said that the last time I hugged you."
"I mean it. Your balls will have a quite memorable meeting with my foot."
Clyde busted out laughing. "Now, if that isn't a come-on, I dunno what is…"
"Hmm." Craig really was mad at him now. "You're right. You don't know. Welcome to the Craig Tucker School of Gay… Hitting… On… Things… Bitch."
"Oh, no."
"Lesson One: How To Tell if a Person of the Homosexual Orientation is Hitting On You."
"You're not gonna kick me-"
"No. I'm not. Now, when a gay guy says he wants to kick you in the genitalia, it means exactly that and absolutely nothing else. On the other hand, when one-"
Clyde kissed him.
Correction: Clyde tried to kiss him but ended up missing his mouth entirely and frenching the side of Craig's face.
"What the…" He gingerly placed Clyde a couple of inches away from him.
"Oh my God, did I really just do that?" he slurred.
"Yes, Clyde. Whatever the hell you call that? Yeah, you did it."
"I-I'm sorry… I don't even know what I was thinking-"
"I think we need to have a little discussion."
"Uh…"
"Since when have you-" Okay, that was phrased wrong. "Well… I, um…" Think, Tucker. "You know… are you?"
"I'm not!" Clyde said a little too loudly. "I'm not. I mean, I like girls… a lot… but… I mean, if you were to hit on me I wouldn't exactly say no…"
Craig put his hand on Clyde's shoulder and shook it for emphasis. "Then why haven't you said anything?"
"I only just realized it now!" he spat. "When you got mad at me then, I… uh, it kind of…" he looked down in embarrassment. "A-and maybe I have all along and I was just too stupid to notice. Or, like, too focused on the fact that you act like you hate me all the time-"
This time it was Craig who kissed first.
Clyde's lips tasted like rum and, for some odd reason, Cheesy Poofs. By 'odd,' Craig meant he hadn't seen a bag of them anywhere the entire night.
He then began to wonder why the hell he was thinking about Cheesy Poofs in the middle of making out with his best friend.
Somehow Clyde had managed to get on top of him and-
"Whoa, okay, I did not need that image in my head," Token interrupts.
"Shut up, I'm not finished."
"…Y-you're not?" Clyde asks, horrorstruck.
"You haven't puked yet. Of course I'm not."
Somehow Clyde had managed to get on top of him and started to unbuckle Craig's belt-
"Look, man, I'm here for you regardless of where (or who) you like to put your dick in, but can you please just cut to the chase and tell us who's puke it is?"
"I'm telling you now." Craig points at Clyde. "It's his."
"I think I'm gonna-"
Clyde leaned over the side of the bed and retched.
"Well…" Craig was naked at this point. "I guess that means your gag reflex is shot."
He picked up the extra comforter at the bottom of the bed and threw it around the two of them.
"Uh… thanks for not throwing up on my dick, I guess."
Ding dong.
"Oh, praise the Lord!" Token throws his hands up towards the heavens. "Clyde, do you want me to come with you to get it?"
"Oh, I, um… yeah, sure…"
Still in shock, Clyde follows him to the door.
Ding dong.
"I'm coming!" he yells.
Token turns around and snickers at Clyde's word choice, then suddenly remembers what he was laughing at and says, "No, wait, ew."
"Homophobe," Clyde hears Craig mutter from the other side of the living room.
Token opens the door.
"Uh… hi."
It's Kenny.
"We don't want any," Token says without missing a beat.
"Wait! Wait!" The blonde sticks his foot inside before they have the chance to close the door. "I feel super bad for not staying, but my sister- you guys know Karen, right?- I had to take her home from Cr- from her friend Ruby's house across the street because she wasn't feeling too good, and then-"
"Save it." Clyde holds up his hand. "You're too late, anyway. We only have a few things left to do."
"But is there any way I can make it up to you guys?"
There's an awkward silence as the two of them glance at each other and ponder what "any way" means.
"If you're trying to do what we think you're trying to-"
"No!" Kenny says loudly. "Jesus Christ, why the fuck does everyone take me seriously when I do that? But anyway, I have some money saved up from when Miss Claridge paid me to shovel her snow and I wanna take you guys out to Denny's."
They just stare at him.
"All on me," he adds.
"Even the tip?"
"Even the tip," Kenny reiterates.
"One moment, please." Token and Clyde move over to discuss the matter.
"No. No, no, no," Clyde whispers. "There is no possible way in Hell we're doing this."
"Oh, hey Kenny!" Tweek calls as he walks calmly down the stairs. How many of those Xannies did he take? Clyde thinks. "I thought I heard your voice! What's going on?"
"Tweeksteeeeer! Wazzup?"
"I can't fucking believe we're doing this," Clyde mutters as he opens the back door to Token's BMW.
"So you walked all the way here, Kenny?" Token asks skeptically.
"S'only, like, three, four cul-de-sacs over. I've walked worse."
"Psst. Clyde. Over here." Craig motions for him to come over by the trash can.
"Yeah?"
"Um… I'm… sorry. About last night. I, um, was just in a really weird mood, and I was lonely, and-"
"You weren't just making that up to gross Token out?"
"Shotgun!" Tweek yells.
Clyde swears he hears Craig mumble, "Goddamn it…"
"I, um, uh… middle!"
"Really?" Token turns to look at him. "Why would you call midd- Oh. Good call."
"Maybe I did, maybe I didn't." Craig whispers. "Maybe shut the fuck up and get in the car."
When everybody's inside, Kenny has the outright cojones to say, "Hey, Craig! How you doin', man?" while he buckles his seatbelt.
Craig flips him the bird.
"So, where did you say your parents were stopping at on the way back?" Token says as he backs out of the driveway.
"That mall in Lakewood…"
"Oh."
"Hey," Craig mutters, holding up one of his earbuds. "Wanna listen?"
"Okay."
When they get to the stop sign, the only traffic is a burgundy Buick turning onto the street.
Token turns around and asks Clyde, "Don't most malls open late on New Year's?"