I'm planning on having everything get resolved in less than a week, story-time.
Also, did I mention there would be crack? The drug kind AND the fandom kind. Why limit ourselves to one?
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o2. Saturday Morning
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"Why do I always have to provide the condoms?" Kenny whined.
"Because it's not like you're going to be using them for anything else," Cartman said, measuring out coke.
"Oh, and you are?" Kenny asked snidely. He expected an explosive, offensive retort from Cartman, and was taken aback when Cartman just grinned smugly while he poured the cocaine into the condoms.
Kenny's jaw dropped.
"No. Fucking. Way."
"Yes way. Fucking."
"Who was it?" Kenny demanded immediately. "It was a hooker, right? It had to be."
Cartman glared. Having sex with a hippie was making him feel so conflicted. Did he follow his instinct to brag about getting laid, or conceal the fact because of the shame of doing it with a flower child?
Kenny was scrutinizing him. "You're bullshitting me. You are, right? There's no way you scored. Not before me."
And that was why he couldn't have it both ways, gloating about getting some while not revealing who the some was. If he didn't give them a name, none of his peers would believe him for a second. It was inconceivable that Cartman, embodiment of all things that repulsed women, could have had sex before they did.
Cartman shoved the condoms at Kenny and scowled. "Shut up and swallow these, you poor piece of crap, and you better get them to Shelbyville by tomorrow."
Kenny looked at them distastefully. "Can I at least have some water to wash them down?"
"I'm not wasting good water on you."
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"Don't argue with me, young man."
"But Mom, I have rehearsal today."
"It's Saturday." Sheila Broflovski placed her hands on her hips. "According to Meddling Mothers Monthly's latest article, "Teenagers Use Schoolwork As A Cover When They Want To Sneak Around Behind Their Parents' Back", teenagers use schoolwork as a cover when they want to sneak around behind their parents' back!"
"I'm not sneaking around," Kyle said, annoyed.
"No, you're not. Because you're taking your brother to Sea World so he can get his next Jewbilee badge."
"Mom, I can't! Our stage manager/director is insane. Every week he changes the play we're doing! We open Friday and he just turned it into a dance number!"
"You promised to drive Ike around as a condition to your father and I buying you that nice, new car!" Actually, an ugly, used car. "If you don't want to stick to your end of the bargain, you can just hand over the keys right now."
"Aarrrrrgh. Fine. Ike get your ass out here!" he hollered upstairs to his younger brother, who was still arranging his scarf in the bathroom mirror. Ike galloped out to the front yard, where Kyle was already unlocking the car.
"Thanks," he offered, noting his brother's foul mood.
"I'm taking you. After drama."
"Nooo!" Ike cried, anguish.
"Don't be a pain in the ass," Kyle snapped. "You won't be bored the whole time. Stan'll be there; he can keep you company."
"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" Ike wailed, falling to his knees and bawling at the sky, arms outstretched, as if asking why his God had forsaken him.
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Craig had vision.
According to him. According to Kyle, Craig had some sort of mental defect.
The play had started out as Romeo and Juliet. Craig had decided he was a real director, and real directors strove for authenticity, so he used real sabers for the battle between Romeo and Mercutio. Romeo (that goth kid, whatever his name is) accidentally stabbed Mercutio (Tweek) in the arm during practice. Tweek ended up in the hospital, and Craig decided the pick a different play, which ended up being Frankenstein.
First Craig wanted to stay faithful to the novel, which cut out Igor, the only character anyone wanted to play. Then he decided it should be 21st Century Frankenstein, because they blew the costume budget on the sabers. Then he decided it should be 21st Century Frankenstein! The Musical. And now, with the play opening in just six days, it had become Monster Mash: The Show-Stopping Specular Spectacle.
And to get his actors, whom he'd referred to as "a group of fatty fatty fat fats", into shape for the final act, Craig had called a mandatory rehearsal at the golf course at nine AM sharp. When Kyle arrived, Craig was no where in sight. He chatted with Mercy and Lexi about where Craig could be, until Craig made his surprise entrance. Which brought on Kyle's epiphany that Craig must not be all there mentally.
Because Kyle and the rest of the actors were running laps around the golf course as fast as they could. Because Craig was chasing them in a golf cart. And in an effort to be motivational, he was chanting a song at them through a megaphone to the tune of "Hey Diddle Diddle":
"Hey jiggle jiggle,
"That fat in the middle,
"A cow's slimmer than you,
"The little kids jeer when they see your flab,
"And the wife rather fuck a spoon."
A great songwriter Craig was not.
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"Oh man." Kenny bit his fist and moaned his thanks to God.
"I told you. Didn't I tell you?"
Kenny had been on his way from Cartman's to the bus stop when Clyde had come running up, out of breath, trying to wheeze out the words "Mercy," "Lexi," and "running."
The vast majority of the Raisins alumnae felt their calling was to be an actress/singer/code-word-for-porn-star. Mercedes and Lexus—who were known by some boys as "Masturbades" and "Sexus" (these boys were not clever)—had taken up drama when they gotten their zits, which was when all Raisins girls where forced to turn in their hot pants. And now they were running.
Clyde momentarily tore his eyes from the sight before them to look at Kenny, who'd been frowning and rubbing his stomach.
"What?"
"Oh, nothing. Indigestion. Spent the morning with Cartman," he said, laughing. Clyde grinned.
"... Mary had a little snack,
"It caused her ass to grow;
"And everything that Mary ate,
"To the thighs it was sure to go. Okay, break!" Craig shouted through the megaphone, braking the golf cart. The actors all collapsed instantaneously, wheezing, clutching their sides, and moaning for sweet sweet death.
"Buncha pansy fatasses," Craig grumbled, climbing out of the cart.
"Hey Craig, why didn't you ever tell us you had M'n'L jogging? We would've come see your rehearsal," Kenny said. Craig looked over at Lexus and Mercedes, whose sweat-soaked chests were heaving, and made a face.
"Really, you guys? Them? I just don't see the appeal. They look so..."
"Gorgeous?" Clyde suggested.
"Fuckable?" Kenny prompted.
"Young," Craig concluded. "They look like little girls. I want women."
"We all know what you want."
"Craig, Garrison doesn't really qualify as a woman," Clyde said.
"You both are so blind. She's the perfect woman."
"So... your definition of the perfect woman is a dyke who used to be a gay-bashing woman who used to be a gay man who used to be a gay-bashing closet case that had sex with animals and quite probably that hand-puppet." Kenny lifted his eyebrows for dramatic effect. It was pretty much the only facial expression he could use to convey his emotions, what with the hood and all.
"You two disgust me. At this very moment that brave woman is lying in a hospital bed courageously fighting prostate cancer, and all you can do is criticize. She taught us every year we were in grade school, from kindergarten to sixth grade!"
"Garrison never taught us anything," Clyde said. "S/h/it just made us watch old TV shows and memorize a lot of backwards geography. Cartman still thinks France is Britain and Britain is France."
"I owe my love of cop dramas to her," Craig said with a dreamy sigh. Kenny and Clyde exchanged somewhat disturbed looks.
At this point two of the performers managed to scrap themselves off of the floor and walked in two different directions. One, Christophe—who would have preferred to go by the code name Ze Mole but had instead been branded Chris by his American classmates because they thought "Christophe" was a little hard to pronounce—came over to Craig, Kenny, and Clyde.
"This ez insulting," Chris told Craig. "I am in perfect shape. You 'ave to be, to run through a land mine, when at any moment your balls could be blown off, but knowing eet is worth eet for free-"
"Blah blah blah, obscenity, obscenity," Craig mocked Chris, flapping his hand like a mouth.
"Hey, Chris," Clyde greeted him.
"'Ello, assholes, Kenny. Can I get you anything? A soda? Do you want someone killed?"
Kenny heaved a sigh. "Chris, c'mon. How many times do we have to go over this? You don't owe me anything."
"You saved my life. I am indebted to you."
"I didn't save your life, you'd already died!"
"Saved my life," Chris repeated firmly.
"Kenny, tell him to do his dance number," Craig urged. "He's being an asshole about it, but he'll do it if you tell him to."
"Eet ez ridiculous," Chris said, glaring. "I was willing to be Victor Frankenstein when you wanted me to break into a Charnel house and steal bodies, but I. Will. Not. do a pole dance on my shovel."
"But it's the only way you can properly convey the heartbreak of having your wife slain by your creation before you even get to bone her!"
"No."
"Frenchie," Craig mumbled. Chris glared and reached for his shovel.
"Wow, you guys," Clyde said. "Mellax."
(Clyde has a vocabulary that is full of words that he basically made up himself. A few examples:
mel•lax, verb
combination of mellow and relax; like chillax, except no one else says it
lol•ly-dal•ly, verb
combination of lollygag and dilly-dally; anything done simply to waste time
po•e•mo, noun
emo poetry
clit•tease, noun
1 male equivalent of a cocktease
2 Kyle Broflovski
nor•kie, noun
(derogatory) someone from North Park
adjective
anything particularly lame or "gay", example: making a dictionary to define the words you make up)
Kenny was still sniggering at Craig's description of Chris' role. "What sort of play is this?"
Craig lit up the way he always does when describing his vision. "Frankenstein tries to create the ultimate dancer. Disco. Ballroom. Breakdance. All of it. But the result is a horrible monstrosity. Blacklisted from all clubs, attacked by street performers, the creature ultimately gets stomped to death by ravers in a mosh pit, but not before riverdancing a few of Frankenstein's loved ones to death."
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Meanwhile, the other actor who'd regained footing made his way to the two brunettes who were seated on the sidelines. One of them was reading something out loud and the other was on his knees, hands clamped over his ears, banging his head against the grass.
"...my life is like a black sock
"stepped on all day
"everyday
"until I am full of holes
"then discarded
"unwanted
"into a waste basket."
"Hey Stan, Ike," Kyle greeted them.
"Hey man, is running what you do at every rehearsal? No wonder you're so fit."
"KYLE!" Ike launched himself off of the ground and clung to his brother's abdomen. "Can we go now? Please?"
"Yes," Kyle said, fed up with Craig.
"Where're you going?" Stan asked, standing up and brushing grass off his ass.
"Sea World," Kyle said. Stan's face lit up.
"Henrietta's working there today! Can I come?"
"No!" Ike gasped.
"Sure," Kyle said.
"Great! I can read you more of my poetry during the car ride, Ike."
"No!" Ike wailed.
"Here's a new one I've been working on." Stan cleared his throat. "My life is sad and lonely/ Like a graveyard at night / And when you go beneath the surface / All you find is dead things and worms eating the dead things / Then crapping them back out as dirt / My soul is worm excrement..."
Ike made a pitiful, whipped noise and went limp. Kyle and Stan had to carry him by his arms and legs to the car.