Hi all, this is my first long-term, somewhat-serious South Park piece. I'm not all that emotionally invested in the show as some folks are, but I'm punctual and efficient, so updates will probably be frequent enough. I don't like "high school dramu" "everyday life" stories, usually because they're boring as fuck, so, I'll try not to be as boring as fuck. Peace out.

Chapter One

The snow crunched placidly beneath the hatchback's worn out tires, the only sound in the otherwise still mountain air. The street was deserted, except for the sentinel trash cans left out on the curbs. However, it was getting on to five in the morning, and city-hired sanitation workers would be along soon to collect them.

"Don't touch me," snapped the young woman in the passenger seat, surprising the boy beside her. Clyde Donovan's right hand retracted, and he looked unsure of what to say next.

"Bebe," he began, his tone half-perplexed, half-joking as usual.

"Just shut up, Clyde. Let me think for a minute."

Clyde obeyed, clenching his fingers on the steering wheel and staring out of the windshield anxiously. He wasn't worried about being told to shut up (she told him that almost daily) but he was worried that Bebe was thinking. Most of his life up to this point had been proof that nothing good had ever come of thinking.

Seconds, then minutes passed, and he contemplated turning on the radio just to keep himself from nodding off. He was exhausted, and he smelled, partly because he'd fallen into a puddle of beer and partly because he'd fallen onto platter of deviled eggs shortly after. He was picking at something that had crusted onto his knuckles and looked suspiciously like blood when Bebe started waving her arms frantically in front of her.

He thought for a moment that she might have been having a fit, and he wasn't sure if he should start shouting for help or give her the Heimlich before he realized that she was just trying to pull off her jacket. Actually, it was his letterman's jacket, earned when he'd been appointed Captain of South Park High School's varsity wrestling team, and promptly re-gifted to his girlfriend, Bebe Stevens. She had gotten one of her own, of course, when she'd been made Captain of the softball team, but Clyde insisted that she wore his. Because that's what "dudes do."

But as she was now yanking it off as if it were burning her skin, she was also disrupting the delicate order of the universe and all things that dudes did.

"Babe, what are you doing?"

Bebe thrust the dusty green jacket into his face, her torso now covered only by a magenta tank top. Goosebumps already began to rise up along her arms. "It's over, Clyde."

He almost didn't hear her over his somewhat disgusted fascination with her goosebumps. What was the deal with goosebumps, anyway? "What?"

"I said, it's over," Bebe repeated nasally. Her face was blotched and wet, her fingers fumbling numbly with the seat belt as Clyde tried to return his jacket to her, to cover up those very distracting goosebumps, and the even more distracting curves of her tits.

"What is?"

"This. Us," Bebe said, wiping her running nose on the back of her arm, the seat belt sliding back into its little seat-belt-cave as she finally managed to click the button. She began scrabbling at the door, her vision apparently foggy with tears. "I'm sorry, Clyde, I just can't take this anymore."

It wasn't the first time Clyde had heard this from Bebe, and he was almost sure that it wouldn't be the last. "Baby," he said, reaching for the not-snot-covered hand as she opened the door. "I'm sorry. What did I do this time?"

"That you even have to ask is such bullshit." Bebe was shivering now, a cold wind forcing open the car door. The snow squeaked as she thrust one leg outside. "You made out with Lola Stewart for a bowl of chips, you fucking prick."

The night had been a bit of a blur, but Clyde did remember a bowl of chips. Not just any chips, though-they'd been the last Cool-Ranch Doritos left, and he'd been really, really hungry. "It wasn't making out," he started, though he also remembered that there'd been a lot of tongue. "And they were really good-"

"I can't believe-"

"No!" Clyde shouted uncomfortably, his voice echoing off of the silent, stalwart houses. "No, look, I'm sorry. I won't do it again. Can't we talk about this?" He didn't have the awareness to keep the note of panic out of his voice. She actually sounded serious. In all the four years they'd been together, she'd never sounded so set on dumping him.

Bebe was standing now, her hair frizzing around her face, her nose rosy and her lips now purple with cold. "I don't care what you do, Clyde. I don't want to talk about it, not right now, okay?"

He sat in the front seat, jacket in his lap, trying not to stare at her nipples as they poked out almost comically beneath her shirt. "Uh," was all he could manage as a response.

"Thanks for the ride," Bebe said shortly. "I'll see you later."

Clyde flinched as she slammed the door and turned, walking up the drive to her front door. He watched her fiddle with the lock and go inside, mentally following her route from the hall to her bedroom, maybe to the bathroom, where she'd wash off the make up that had begun to run. Would she go to bed? Maybe read a book? Find something to eat? Log on to Facebook and update her relationship status?

He stared at the steering wheel, both hands clutching it uncomfortably tight. The silver Volvo logo gleamed.

Shaking his head, Clyde gripped the keys in the ignition and listened to the engine liven up. It didn't roar-it was a Volvo- but he liked to imagine himself behind the wheel of a car with an engine that roared. Ideally, with a babe in the passenger seat, or in the back, framed by another pair of babes. Almost automatically, he knew that Bebe would never be one of those babes ever again.

"Weird," he said, setting down the gas and pulling away from the curb. It wasn't as if he lacked any babes to choose from, but knowing that his options were now narrower was unsettling. Lola Stewart was a babe, but she was a seven, where Bebe was a full on eight-and-a-half. He also thought he loved her, even if he didn't quite know what love was really supposed to be.

Clyde Donovan didn't think often about love, but the moment he did was also the moment he chose to ignore the stop sign posted on the corner. It was the moment he didn't see the pale green sedan emerge into the intersection, and he still hadn't seen it until his front fender was sunk into its passenger door.

"Fuck," Clyde announced, startled from his reverie by the noise and the imprint the steering wheel had made on his forehead with that sudden stop. He was dazed and confused, and, a second later, panicked.

His dad would kill him for getting into another accident. They'd suspend his license, or worse, make him take the bus to school. He'd just lost his girlfriend, and it would sting his ego beyond repair to be forced into riding the bus.

With a shriek of tires, Clyde backed up until he could drive around the other car, speeding down the road without another glance back.

AN

Lola doesn't have a last name on the South Park wiki (I did my research) so I just slapped on the last name of her voice actor.