"We need a plan B," Clyde speaks affirmatively into the Walky-Talky he stole from his neighbor's dog watcher. She took it kindly, thank god, but Clyde was beginning to question if it was only because she hadn't known. Clyde shakes his head and adjusts his clutch on the Walky-Talky. There is some cackling from the other end, and the sweet sound of a burp, which makes Clyde oddly envious. "Currently, as of 2:43 PM, October 2, we are stuck in the bathroom stalls."
"We're not stuck," Tweek groans. Now Tweek was someone who could burp. Clyde never really understood how. Firstly, he was vegan. Need the list go on? But burping, he supposes, just sort of comes naturally to some. Clyde gnaws at his pinky nail and sighs quietly. He probably won't ever be able to burp like his friends. "We're just, ju-just...uhm..."
"Stuck?" Clyde offers up unhelpfully before choosing to ignore the pissy look Tweek throws violently in his direction. He hands the Walky-Talky off to Tweek, anyhow, who fumbles with the buttons before another cackle goes through.
"Dude, it's this bathroom...where it is...so...you remember freshmen year...with the...jesus," Tweek breathes heavily and burps. It's a stress burp, Clyde has been told. Perhaps if he was ever stressed, things would be going a hella of a lot better than now. For starters, he would be able to burp. "So," he inhales sharply. "You got the whereabouts of those airheads or what?" The cackling on the other end turns into a muffled nasally tone.
"Dump your shit down the toilet and stop complaining. Put Clyde on, will you?"
"Her highness awaits you." Tweek makes sure to buzz in the last part. Clyde pushes a bunch of Sharpies at Tweek and nods approvingly, facing him. Tweek raises his eyebrows at Clyde.
"War paint, man! War paint." Clyde grabs the Walky-Talky and hysterically shouts to Craig on the other end. There is little hesitation to hear the pick up sound.
"Don't be a moron."
"Nope, I'm gonna do it." He hears the beep and shoves a magenta Sharpie at Tweek. Clyde's memories of this bathroom involved Tweek, a guitar string and some very unhappy sophomores that bothered Tweek terribly. Any distraction is a good one and he might as well get some kick-ass war paint. He should look fashionable going down in a blaze of glory.
"Pink? Re-really?"
"Do it, man, do it!"
"I don't...I don't know." The consequences of angry Craig are cold, Tweek considered. He was always so pompous about 'teaching you a lesson', too. Tweek had fallen asleep while a pizza was cooking in the oven once when they were barely fourteen. Craig just glared emptily at Tweek and thus, forcing Tweek to eat a piece of pizza remains. He was a total pitbull. But, to the matter at hand. To sharpie or no-
"I said do it!" Clyde rudely interrupts his friend's thoughts.
"Idiot." Tweek grins anyway and draws fancied-up lines that can only be described to a drag queen's sobs as Y generation battle scars. Sure, sure, the skill in Tweek's vision and hand is there, but Sharpie on skin? It's High School deathwish. People at parties do that to the idiots who pass out after their first drink. Not that any of these suckers would know. The closest they got to one of those parties was with Craig-the-Short-Lived-Pizza-Delivery-Guy. Tweek and Clyde hitched a ride in the back of the van to watch (mostly laugh) as Craig brought laxative pizza. It was surprisingly not Clyde's brilliant idea that got Craig fired...
"Clyde. Clyde. Clyde." Craig never speaks loudly and his nasally muttering is as annoying as hell.
"Craig, Craig, Craig!" Clyde mocks into the Walky-Talky, forcing Tweek to pause mid-streak.
"This is possibly the worst plan you've ever had. You can't go out there like that. Put Tweek on."
"Tweek's busy. He's giving me Monroe lips," Tweek brings his hopes up a little and mouths 'seriously?'. Clyde shrugs before nodding. "I want them full, though. Don't be stingy with the lipliner."
"Norma Jean didn't tend to wear lipliner. She was just naturally gaze-worthy."
"Tweek, for the love of God, is the Sharpie going to your head?" Craig's pissed off voice is still boldly bland and quiet. Clyde chooses to ignore him as well. He begins to realize how much he's been doing that recently with his friends. Perhaps he is just jelly. Yeah, that's what it is. Craig is on the outside. He's not stuck in the boy's bathroom that's right next to Amber Kelley's room, one of the school's many science teachers. He doesn't actually know her real name, so Amber Kelley will do. She walks like an athletic sixty-year-old even though she celebrated turning the legal drinking age at the Middle School Prom. Craig was the only one who went. Tweek was on the pills during that time and managed to convince Clyde into buying a Ouija board. But Amber Kelley. Amber Kelley. She was terrifying, just in the fact alone that her room smelt far more disgusting than the boy's bathroom.
"I'm actually...dragging up Clyde with lipsmack I found on the bus floor."
"Whoa, wait, man."
"What?"
"Are you sure that's my color?"
"Positive, dude, it goes with your shoes."
"Oh, well, I guess if you put it that way. Give me gloss!"
"You guys are on your own." Craig sighs, muffling like he's munching on something awesome and totally not lame like Tweek's bag of carrots. Just because he's vegan doesn't mean he has to show it off to everyone. Seriously, everybody understood when he asked the lunch lady, in the seventh grade, if she knew the tomatoes personally, and if they'd been careful not to destroy the roots. Craig had explained that they wouldn't kill the roots because they needed them to make more tomatoes and it would be an "insanely asinine thing to do". Clyde had bet Craig he couldn't read the dictionary, at the time, and now, four years later, Craig was halfway through O in his mom's 1970s Merrium-Webster's Dictionary. No one would play Scrabble with him.
"No!" Clyde scrambles for the Walky-Talky. "I've got really impressive lips now." Tweek laughs. "Right, man?" He asks Tweek, who just continues laughing. "You'd totally hit this, right?" Tweek has a silent laugh. Clyde is always finding himself really jelly because, yanno, silent laughs are killer. Silent but deadly, as they say, and Clyde should know. Silent but deadly.
"Dude, I really don't give a shit if you and Tweek want to put frills on every goddamn thing you do," Tweek grabs the Walky-Talky. "But I need to go. My mom's going to be pissed."
"There's no so-called 'frilling' going on." He sighs as he watches Clyde stand. His face, usually slightly pudgy and friendly, kind of like a St. Bernard, now looks like Bowie had barfed on it. And then a very drunk Marylin Monroe impersonator comes to clean it up. Tweek has taken the creative liberty to add a few silver smiley stars in a vertical line between his eyebrows. Tweek's silver smiley stars was kind of their logo. Halfway through the eighth grade, when Clyde was all broken up about some dame nobody even remembers, Tweek had also taken a few more liberties back then by adorning his locker with silver smiley stars and drawings of happy people playing chess with panda bears. Craig had helped out by writing: she's a heartless bitch. Tweek covered up every letter except the b and the h with silver smiley stars. The silver smiley stars had followed them, like a popular and awful song, all through ninth grade. Tweek had gotten some shoves from people who were just, in Tweek's words, "too immature to appreciate their gentle souls". Craig had wondered, at the time, if he was being serious. There was no doubting now.
"But you assholes better come down here. I don't want detention if someone gets hurt."
"Dude, don't beat them up!" Despite how it seems, bullies don't bother the Silver Smiley Star Gang too much. Craig is an intimidating prick who enjoys slamming his cheekbones into revolving doors and jumping off his roof with plastic bag wings. He rarely smiles in public unless he's injured himself and then he's wearing a shit-eating grin, hugging whoever is responsible. So, it's a self-made reputation that Craig has built up, and no one really wants to question someone with a rumor going around that they had bought light bulbs and stomped barefooted on them in a grocery store's parking lot. "They'll die!" Tweek exclaims, nay, screeches. "And then you'll be in Juvie and we won't get to make that video about the car thief!"
"Nobody's gonna die," Craig, monotone clear as ever, says. "Well," he reconsiders briefly. "Maybe your paladin tonight." Tweek uncontrollably squeaks. It is a funny sound, so really no one could blame Clyde for laughing. He doesn't do it too much since he's been on all the experimental treatment. But Tweek is too worried about his paladin to care if Clyde is laughing at him. Craig is the worst DM, and he cruelly put his friends up against level 20 bosses when they were only on level 5. D&D was a cold mistress.
"Oh, bully for you." Clyde says and walks to the door. He salutes once and Tweek salutes back. Craig asks them to please (he doesn't say please) not salute each other. Clyde runs out the door and down the hall. All Tweek hears is a girlish sort of cry and a manly laugh. Tweek doesn't get manly laughs, because he doesn't make any noise when he laughs. But that girly shriek and annoyingly manly laugh is all he hears before he blacks out.