"Craig, don't be an asshole," Cartman said flatly, looking at the boy in the blue chullo standing beside him.
Craig stared between Cartman and his three friends, on the verge of just giving in and going along with it. But then again... why should he have to? You know what, no. No, he wasn't doing this.
He shoved Cartman away from him, towards the front door. "No, I'm not doing it. Get out of here."
The four groaned and headed off to find another way to get money to start their Peruvian pan-flute band.
Craig allowed a small smile to cross his face. He had done it, he'd stood up to the assholes and protected his money. Satisfied, he shut the door and returned to his spot on the couch to continue watching Red Racer.
It was a few days later when he saw on the news the rounding up of pan-flute bands at the South Park mall. Oh, look, there were Stan and his gang being arrested. Cool. Those guys got into trouble like this all the time, he wasn't worried that they would come out of it just fine, they usually did.
Craig climbed the stairs to his bedroom, going to visit his guinea pig, Stripe. "Hey, Stripe," he greeted, opening the cage and letting the fluffy creature crawl out onto his hand. Man, guinea pigs made him so happy. They were easy to take care of, not to mention super cute.
"Do you think they'll be gone for a long time?" he asked his pet. "I hope so, it'll be nice to have at least a few days of peace around here." He played with Stripe for a while, then returned him to his cage. He changed into his favorite truck printed pajamas and went to sleep.
The next day, as he was watching Red Racer, there was another knock on the door. With a sigh, he got up and went to the door. Outside were Stan and Kyle's parents. He blinked at them, wondering idly what they wanted.
"Hello, Craig," Stan's mom, Sharon, greeted softly. She looked like she had been crying, as did Sheila, Kyle's mom. "We were wondering if you'd seen our boys. T-They've been missing for a few days. The last we heard they had come to see you."
"I have no idea where they are," Craig answered. It was honest enough. Sure, he had seen them being arrested, but he had no clue where they had been taken. Saying they had been arrested wouldn't help anything.
"Who's here, Craig?" His mother, Laura, came out of the kitchen. "Oh, hello, Randy, Sharon, Sheila, Gerald." With each name, she nodded slightly. The other parents returned the gesture, though not as enthusiastically, which was impressive seeing as Laura hadn't used any emotion. "What can we do for you?"
"We heard that our sons were last seen with Craig, and we just wanted to know if he knew where they had gotten to," Gerald said, hugging his wife close. "I always knew he was trouble..."
Craig blinked. Had that remark been... directed at him?
Laura seemed to think so as well, putting her hands on her hips. "Excuse me? What does that mean?"
"Don't take offense, Laura, it's just that... well, we always though Craig was a trouble maker," Sharon said.
"How dare you!" Laura scooped Craig into her arms. "How dare you talk about my son like that! He's a sweet little thing, it's your out of control children that cause all the problems!" She set him down on the steps and turned to face the other parents, throwing herself into the quickly growing argument.
Craig simply sighed and walked upstairs. No point in hanging out, it looked like he was done watching his show for the day. 'Man, even when they aren't around to cause trouble for me,' he thought irritably. 'And they tell me I'm the dick!'
He heard his dad, Thomas, get back a while later, interrupting the argument that was still going on. Soon his loud voice joined in the other yelling, and Craig found himself growing irritated. Why couldn't they all just leave him alone? He came out of his room and started down the stairs, getting to the bottom just as Sharon began to yell at her husband Randy to "Put down his stupid fucking video camera, their son was missing, and they had more important things to worry about!"
Craig ignored them and sat on the couch, flipping on the television. The news was on now, set to CNN. He crossed his arms and leaned back with a frown, listening to the opening music before the newscaster, Tom, appeared.
"The government efforts to stop the Peruvian flute band crisis are now in their third day," he reported as footage of Times Square in New York was shown, with other Peruvian pan-flute bands being chased down and arrested. "In cities all over the world, flute bands have been removed and quarantined." As he spoke, they aired shots of cities around the country. "But more may still be out there. Homeland Security's requesting that, if you see a Peruvian flute band, do not approach it." A graphic appeared on the screen to emphasis his message. "Mark down the flute band's location, and do not, under any circumstances, buy their CDs." The graphic faded, and the camera returned to the reporter. "The flute bands that have been contained are being taken to a quarantined area in Miami."
'I guess they're in Miami then,' Craig thought idly, wondering if he should mention this to the adults. He watched the group fighting with his parents and rolled his eyes. Nah, that was too much effort. Instead, he went into the kitchen and got out two lunchables from the fridge, then returned upstairs. He opened his little sister's door and pushed the box into her room, figuring she might be hungry (What? He could do nice things for his sibling if he felt like it!), then returned to his own. The day had been nice and boring for the most part, until everyone had to start freaking out.
Those guys got into problems like this all the time, why were their parents only freaking out now? Probably just to ruin his boring day. Assholes. Whatever, it was bedtime.
The next day he spent entirely with Stripe. He brought his lovable, fluffy pet downstairs with a few toys and Stripe's little clear plastic rolly ball. They sat in the living room, playing games and watching cartoons. They only fully paused their playing when Red Racer came on, and the guinea pig laid in Craig's arms with his beady little eyes watching the screen like his human.
Once it ended, they returned to their game. A few hours later, Craig got himself a sandwich and some lettuce for Stripe. While they ate, the news came on again, a low voice alerting him to the change on the TV by saying, "This is CNN."
The newscaster from the day before, Tom, was back. "The last of the Peruvian flute bands have successfully been eradicated from every part of the world," he announced happily. He turned to the screen beside him and addressed the on-location reporter. "Paul Harris is at the shopping promenade and Paul, pretty nice not having any Peruvian flute music there, I suspect."
The camera changed to the one-site reporter. "Really welcome silence, Tom," he said, smiling. "There hasn't been a Peruvian pan flute band in sight for days now, and everyone is really enjoying the peace. The world can breathe a collective sigh of relief now as we thank the-" He was cut off suddenly as a low, frightening moan sounded loudly.
Craig blinked, looking at the screen curiously. Why did that sound familiar...?
The camera swung around as the ground began to shake, trying to find the source of the noise and shaking. Something exploded to the side and the camera wiped over to focus on a car now burning. Paul screamed, "WHAT THE-?!"
He was drowned out by people running by, screaming as well. A woman shrieked, "OH MY GOD!" A police vehicle flew through the air, slamming into the ground upside down, right beside the water fountain in the promenade. More chaos ensued as Paul stood from where he had fallen, turning back to the camera to try and continue his report. "There's- there's something else here! It's..." He looked to the side, and the camera followed his movement, focusing on the police car once more. "It's not a Peruvian flute band, it's a..." He squinted into the distance. "Oh my God, what is that thing?!"
Shocked out of his speechlessness, Tom asked, "Paul? Paul, what do you see?"
"It's furry! It's very furry!" Paul screamed again, then the camera blinked out and the stream was lost.
The studio was silent, then Tom slowly turned back to the camera directed at him and said, "Okay obviously something different has uh shown up a-... Did he say 'furry'?" Before anyone could answer him, loud thumps like footsteps could be heard outside the building, and everything inside rattled and a few computers turned off. People in the background scattered around, trying to fix the malfunctions.
"Okay, uh, we're- we're experiencing some uh-" Tom was cut off as more footsteps were heard, this time much closer, and everything but the camera that was broadcasting the newsroom shut off. A third bang knocked the camera back, filming part of the roof as it was ripped away like a tin can lid. Moonlight shone in, illuminating the terrified face of Tom as he looked out. "My God what is that thing?!" he screamed. The fourth bang sent the camera spinning in another direction, getting just the bottom of Tom's body as he was lifted up screaming, then the camera was crushed, and static took over the screen.
Craig stared blankly at the television, confused beyond belief. "What the hell just happened...?" he asked out loud. He looked down at Stripe, rubbing his soft little head for a moment before putting him into the rolly ball. "I'm sure it's those guys fault somehow, Stripe. It's always their fault. Why can't they just walk away sometimes? Just say no?"
He got down on the floor, laying on his stomach and watching Stripe roll around the carpet. He yawned, then heard the door open as his parents came in, returning from work.
"It's time for bed now, Craig," Thomas said, scooping up some of the guinea pig toys while Laura helped Craig stand. They took him upstairs, and tucked him into bed, kissing his forehead and telling him goodnight before returning to the first floor.
He yawned again, then turned onto his side, more than ready for sleep. Perfect, boring days like this one had been always wore him out. He was asleep before long, and didn't wake up when a knock came to his front door.
Thomas opened it, revealing an older man in a suit. "Can I help you?" he questioned, staring the stranger up and down.
"Is this the residence of a 'Craig Tucker'?" the man asked.
"Who wants to know?" Thomas shot back, crossing his arms over his large chest.
"I'm from the Department of Homeland Security. My name is Michael Chertoff, and I must speak with your son if he is here," the stranger, Michael answered. "Please, sir, it's a matter of national importance. He is the only one who can do something about this situation."
"I'm assuming you're talking about the strange attacks that are happening in the big cities? What exactly is Craig supposed to do about them? He's ten," the ginger man said. "Besides, Craig is in bed right now, probably sleeping too. I'm not going to wake him up for no reason."
For a second Michael's face contorted hideously, but Thomas blinked once, and it has smoothed again, leaving him to believe he had simply imagined it. "You see, Craig is the only person who can stop what's happening. For the betterment of our nation, I need to send him off to Peru."
Thomas didn't say anything for a few minutes, simply staring at the agent as if he'd grown another head in the span of two seconds. Then, without another word, he stepped back, and slammed the door shut. He locked it immediately after, traveling to the kitchen tiredly to join his wife. He then informed her of the strange conversation he had just had with their late-night visitor.
"How odd," was Laura's only comment, at a loss for for what to say.
Outside, Michael snarled and spat, shaking with rage. He returned to the sidewalk, staring up at the house with smoldering eyes for a while, before realizing something: he could just climb up and steal Craig away himself.
Grinning darkly, he broke into the Tucker's garage, taking out their ladder. He set it to the right of the door, and climbed up, peeking into the window. Directly in front of him was the little bastard himself, sleeping soundly in his bed with no idea of what was happening around him.
He easily opened the window, and climbed into the room. Glancing around, Michael wondered vaguely what a plain child like Craig could possibly be into. When he spotted the cage in the corner, he walked over. What kind of pet could a boring kid have?
Staring into the cage, to say he was shocked to see a guinea pig peering back at him would have been an understatement. Of course, not recognizing the person staring at him, Stripe's teeth began to chatter in annoyance. His sleep was being disturbed.
Michael grinned and leaned closer to the cage. "Hello, little guinea pig," he whispered. "Your master can make a lot of trouble for me, so I'm going to remove him from this equation." As if he understood, Stripe began to growl in fear, the soft "drr drr" sounds filling the room.
Instantly, Craig sat up, though his eyes were still closed. Michael dropped flat to the ground, watching Craig as he rubbed his eyes sleepily. "Stripe? What's wrong, buddy?" He got up and made him way over to the cage on his desk, not noticing the presence of the man in his room, who was silently worming his way across the floor to the window.
Craig opened the cage, pulling his pet out gently and settling him in his arms, petting him calmly as he spoke softly. "Hey, it's okay. Nothing is going to hurt you, I promise. I'm right here, anything that would want to hurt you would have to go through me." Suddenly, the window slammed shut behind him, and Craig turned to look at it curiously. "Huh, that's weird... I never have the window open..." He looked at it a moment longer, then shrugged and put Stripe back in his cage, the guinea pig relaxed once more.
He walked back to his bed, sitting on the edge and rubbing his eyes sleepily. Just then, a low, loud moan like he had heard on the news sounded through the small town. Craig paused, then turned and looked out his window. He didn't see anything out of the ordinary, through lights were turning on in other houses. Then the ground began to shake.
Feeling a little frightened, Craig got up and quickly changed out of his pajamas into his usual clothes, getting a sneaking suspicion he wouldn't be going back to bed any time soon. In his closet he pulled out a small handheld cage, and went to Stripe, getting the animal into it quickly. "Sorry, Stripe. I know you aren't super fond of this thing, but I get the feeling something bad is going to happen, and I'm not leaving my best friend behind." Rather than getting growled at as he had thought, Craig received a little purr and he smiled. "Cool."
He left his room, holding the cage protectively. His little sister opened her door and peeked out, also redressed. "Craig? What's happening?" she asked.
"I have no idea, Tricia. Let's go down and find mom and dad," he said, waiting for her to leave her room and shut the door before leading the way downstairs.
Laura and Thomas were standing in the living room, glancing around worriedly. Seeing the children on the stairs, Laura approached and put her arms around them while Thomas went to the door and opened it.
The house filled with the screams of the people outside running past them. Helicopters flew overhead, and more crashing and low moaning could be heard.
"Thomas! What's going on? What do you see?" Laura called, picking up her children and moving slightly closer to the large man.
"I don't see- WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!" A loud, booming crash followed his outburst, and a car was thrown past their door.
"RUN! WE HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE! THOMAS, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING?! MOVE, GET YOUR FAMILY OUT OF THERE!" They couldn't see the speaker, but they listened anyway. Thomas turned and took Tricia from Laura, then led his wife out of the house, sprinting down the street away from the unknown danger.
Craig held tightly onto Stripe's carrier, Laura's arms holding him securely to her as she ran behind her husband. The boy looked over his mother's shoulder, wanting to see the cause of this crazed panic. He blinked, then squinted, and used one hand to rub his eyes, hardly able to believe what he was seeing.
"Is that a giant guinea pig?"
The news reports are taken directly from the script of the episode.