Author's Note: Bet you never expected to see this, huh? I just want to say that I may or may not finish this fic, and if I do it could be within the next few months or in another two years – this is just something fun to work on right now as a change of pace from my other projects.
Anyway, enjoy! For what it's worth I'm planning to start on the next chapter soon.
ALL THE YOUNG DUDES
SEPTEMBER
What do I do when my love is away?
Does it worry you to be alone?
How do I feel by the end of the day?
Are you sad because you're on your own?
No, I get by with a little help from my friends
Mm, I get high with a little help from my friends
Mm, gonna try with a little help from my friends
Do you need anybody?
I need somebody to love
Could it be anybody?
I want somebody to love
Monday, September 2
Stan walked apprehensively into his first period chemistry class, and looked around. He hadn't been back since last Friday, when he had accidentally set quite a few things on fire while trying to ask Wendy out. Well, he definitely wouldn't try that again.
He walked over to the table where Wendy was already seated, and put his bag down. He glanced her way long enough to note that she was reading a book, before immediately doing a double-take. Her once waist-length black hair was now cropped short in a bob which, if anything, just made her look even cuter. He cleared his throat, and she glanced over at him.
"Oh, hi Stan." She said coolly.
"Hi Wendy," he replied. "Um, I'm sorry again about that…" he made a gesture in the general area of his head. "You know. But you look good with short hair!" she closed her book, and her expression softened slightly.
"Thanks. I was actually thinking about cutting it short anyway." She frowned, "Though now I couldn't even donate the rest of it because it was all damaged." She paused, and picked up her book again, clearly still upset with him.
"I'm really, really sorry." He said again.
"Yes, well, so am I." She said.
"All right class," Mr. Simpson said, "If you'll all just pass your homework to the front…"
Why did he have to have math first thing in the morning? It was almost inhumane.
Wait… forget 'almost'. It was inhumane.
Kyle rubbed his eyes again, trying to make them focus properly, but it just wasn't happening. His teacher had finished lecturing for the day, and had left the notes on the board. Kyle was trying and failing to concentrate long enough to copy them all down when all he really wanted to do was put his head down on the desk and sleep.
His math teacher had turned out to be a real douche and had assigned them all to seats on the second day of school. Kyle was between two boys who both seemed to know each other; Rick and Stewart. Both were pale and sickly-looking, though Rick was scrawny and Stewart was pudgy. This alone would not bother Kyle if Rick wasn't such a huge jackass. He was really smart, sure – he was taking the already-advanced class as a junior- but did he have to rub it in all the time? His penchant for asshole-ism coupled with his nerdiness made Kyle dread math. And to add insult to injury, all three of them were seated at the very front of the classroom, which meant that any chance Kyle had of being able to sleep unnoticed was about as big as Rick's chance of ever getting laid: slim to none.
"What's wrong, Kyle? Having problems concentrating?" Kyle winced; Rick's voice was like the sound of sandpaper on a chalkboard to Kyle's fatigued ears.
"No, Rick. I'm just tired." Kyle told him patiently. Rick had an annoying habit of never shutting up. Normally Kyle wouldn't mind having someone to talk to, but Rick was just such a geeky douche-bag that he usually tried to end the conversation as soon as possible.
"Oh I bet. I forgot that jocks like you are always out partying all night." Rick said. Stewart giggled from somewhere off to Kyle's right.
"What?" Kyle yelped incredulously, becoming slightly more awake.
"Well you sporty popular types are always at parties, huh?" Rick scoffed, "I mean, you're always hangin' with your crew in the hizz-ouse." Several students snickered, and Kyle looked around at the nerds in surprise. They thought he was a jock? What the hell?
"Look I don't know what you're talking about, but I'm just not a morning person. I don't see how that equates to athlete. I'm not an athlete. Just… no."
"Maybe not this season," Rick said snidely, "But you're definitely one of those 'cool kids'. You know, with the fancy cars and the hot girlfriends." Kyle stared.
"What's it like to have a girlfriend?" One of the boys sitting in the back queried stuffily.
"I don't even have a car," Kyle said, exasperated, "Or a girlfriend. Look, dude, I don't know what in the hell your problem is, but shut up."
"Oh sure 'dude'." Rick said, deliberately emphasizing Kyle's trademark word. "No problem 'dude'." Kyle resisted the urge to step on Rick's face, and went back to copying the notes off the board, perhaps with more force than was necessary. Rick waited for a moment before going back to doing his homework without the use of a calculator. No one had any idea what the hell Stewart was doing.
It wasn't until after the bell had rung and Kyle was furiously packing his bag when he realized that for the first time in his life he had just been made fun of for not being a nerd.
"She hates me."
"What?" Kyle looked up from the math problems he was still puzzling over to see Stan practically collapse next to him on the bench he was seated on. "Who? Wendy?" Stan sighed by way of response and began hitting his head against the top of the table. "Well, yeah, she's going to be angry with you for a while, dude."
"No, she hates me. She probably thinks I did it on purpose or something."
"What?"
"Like… I … wanted her to notice me, so I lit her hair on fire." Kyle paused, and began putting his books back into his bag.
"Isn't that almost exactly what happened? Anyway, you're worrying about this too much. You suck now, dude." Stan was hitting his head on the table with increasing force and Kyle, worried for whatever was left of his friend's frontal lobe, grabbed the back of Stan's shirt and pulled him away from the table. "She's just a girl."
"But she's the best girl ever." Kyle let go of Stan's shirt, and Stan flopped back onto the table. Kyle stood up, mildly disgusted.
"I'm going to go talk to Cartman now. That's how much I think you suck."
He was spared from actually having to do this, however, when the bell rang, and Stan dragged himself up from the seat, looking somewhat miserable. Kyle looked around, but the only other person nearby was Cartman, who appeared to be so deeply brooding that he wasn't even looking at the muffin cart.
"Hey where's Kenny?" Kyle asked. Stan looked around and shrugged.
"I dunno, dude. Maybe he died." Kyle looked around and decided that this must be true, before heading off to class.
Kenny was not dead, but rather, on a mission.
This particular mission involved a couple of safety pins, Butters' gym locker, and his own gym lock, borrowed for the cause. This was, of course, only phase one, but every part of a prank had to be carefully planned and delicately executed, or else the whole thing would topple like a house of cards.
The small prank he had played on Butters the first week of class had given him an idea – not really an idea so much as an obligation. With Cartman's attention so scattered for the past month he had been, for the most part, leaving Butters alone completely. The kid was getting too complacent; whistling while he walked from class to class, turning his back on his belongings for two seconds while he opened his locker – just who did he think he was?
The world was not a safe place, and clearly it fell to Kenny to remind Butters of this. Daily, forcefully, and painfully, if necessary.
Not to mention torturing Butters would make P.E. a lot more tolerable. Kenny shouldn't have to be the only one to suffer.
After the prep work was over, he retreated to his third-period class, where he sat through an hour of biology hardly listening to what the teacher was saying. It was vital that he get phase two right.
He strolled into P.E. a few minutes later than usual and quickly changed into his gym clothes (which were in his backpack, along with an open lock) in the locker room, pointedly ignoring the frustrated clanging on the other side of the row of lockers. As he was tucking his clothes back into his locker, he turned around, pretending to notice Butters for the first time.
"Hey Butters. Something wrong?" He asked, zipping up his backpack casually. Butters was looking appropriately harried, and the late bell was due to ring in about three minutes. Kenny congratulated himself on being an evil genius.
"Oh my lock won't open is all," He tugged on it again, but the lock was refusing to budge. Probably because it was, in fact, Kenny's. "I need to get my clothes – if I show up to class in my street clothes Mr. Jones is gonna ground me." Butters paused for a moment, catching himself, "I mean – mark me as absent." He turned back to the locker "My parents'll ground me." he muttered.
"Huh." Kenny said, "Well I dunno about the lock, but if you want I have an extra set of clothes you can borrow. We're about the same size so they should fit okay," he pulled a pair of their school shorts and the regulation t-shirt from his bag. They should fit Butters like a charm, actually considering they were really his – albeit with minor alterations. Kenny supposed he could have just left the clothes in Butters' locker for him to find, saving himself some trouble and a missed morning break – but the beauty of this was that by now the other boy was too flustered and worried about being late to even notice what he was changing into.
"Well sure Kenny. That's awfully nice of you." Butters accepted the clothes gratefully and hastily changed, while Kenny made a big show of trying to stuff his backpack into his locker. He managed it just as Butters, done changing, tucked his backpack under the benches and hightailed it out of the locker room, never once noticing that the back of his shirt read ' $5 Blow Jobs', lovingly penned by Kenny with fabric paint stolen from the art classroom. Kenny followed more slowly, all of his energy now turned to the task of trying not to laugh.
He tailed Butters, who was making his way outside, where the rest of the class was already standing around. Mr. Jones was yet to arrive – perfect. Phase 2: complete. Kenny leaned against the brick wall of the building, preparing for Phase 3: enjoying the chaos he had wrought. He was not disappointed when Mr. Jones – an overweight, balding man in his forties, walked over, and stopped short, seeing Butters' shirt.
"STOTCH." He bellowed, walking over. Butters whirled around, looking horrified. "What is the meaning of this?"
"Th-this is gym class sir," Butters stammered.
"I meant the shirt." Butters just looked puzzled at this.
"The shirt?"
"Yes, Stotch, the shirt!" Mr. Jones continued angrily, "You know, these gym uniforms have been the same ever since I attended South Park High as a boy. They are not to be used as an advertising vehicle for your get-rich quick schemes!" Butters continued to look puzzled. Kenny watched as Wendy sighed, and, apparently taking pity on Butters, walked up and whispered something in his ear. All the color drained out of Butters' face.
"Oh Jesus!" He yelped.
"Prayer won't help you now. Ordinarily I would speak to the guidance counselor about this but I think, under the circumstances, I had better contact your parents as well."
"P-please, sir, if my mom and dad hear about this, well, they'll be awful sore!" Mr. Jones shook his head, and took hold of Butters' arm.
"No use begging, it's off to the principal's office with you." He looked around, "You kids stay here until I get back!" Within seconds, they were out of sight. The other kids in the class looked at each other for a moment, and then dispersed. Kenny headed back to the locker room to switch the locks back and get his stuff – no way was he sticking around.
Wednesday, September 18
Eric Cartman was always ready to argue.
He was the rare sort of person who never had an off day, never just didn't feel like fighting about something, and never let something go. He absolutely wouldn't leave it alone unless he was able to walk away knowing he had gotten the better of his opponent.
So, when he walked into his government class first period to find that the room was set up with a podium at the front and the words 'DEBATE TODAY' written on the whiteboard, the first thing he did was look around, trying to decide who he would reduce to tears today.
He had discovered a passion for arguing when he was younger, but over the years it had developed into nothing short of an art form. There was nothing quite like that moment in the heat of a debate when you made the perfect point, sending your opponent reeling in a veritable Hiroshima of logic. Being right was a wonderful thing. Discussions become boring after a while, so around his junior year, Cartman had decided to spice it up and made it his goal to make at least one person cry every time he debated something. This turned out to be one of his best ideas ever, because not only did he get to argue with someone, he also got the satisfaction of seeing that person cry afterwards. It took a little more effort than just winning but hey, nothing worth having ever came easy.
Today, he was feeling up to a challenge. Today he was also feeling particularly spiteful, and so he decided that today his target would be the oversized white monkey lounging across both his and Cartman's desks. Cartman stepped up to the desk, cleared his throat, and shoved Jack off of it. In doing this, he shoved Jack off Jack's desk as well, and onto the floor, where he landed with a grunt. Cartman sat down, and set his backpack next to him.
"What the hell, man?" Jack demanded, sitting up and brushing himself off. Cartman looked over at him.
"Oh I'm sorry, was that you at my desk? I thought it was a pile of moldy rotten sewage left there by mistake. My bad." He gave Jack an insincere smile and turned back towards the front of the classroom. Jack climbed back in his seat.
"Don't be such a fucking asshole." He muttered, and for once, Cartman didn't feel the need to reply. However, if Jack had happened to catch the look on Cartman's face just then, he probably would have wet himself and started crying on the spot. Cartman had chosen his victim.
A few rounds into the debate, and Cartman was just warming up – a comment here, a comment there. Ms. Murray had called up the first few pairs of students to debate, before people had started getting into it enough to volunteer to debate. He had let several good topics pass - gay marriage, abortion, gun control - he was just waiting for Jack to volunteer, and then he would be all over it, like Kenny on a cheap hooker.
"All right, that's enough for taxes," Ms. Murray said, cutting off a girl who was practically sobbing as she argued her case for flat taxes, mascara running down her face as she babbled about how everyone should be equal. Ms. Murray gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder, and the girl scampered off to her seat. "Our next topic is going to be censorship. Do we have any volunteers?" To Cartman's right, Jack's hand went up, and, thanks to reflexes hones by years of video games, a split second later Cartman's hand shot up as well.
"All right, boys." Ms. Murray said, looking somewhat doubtful, "You know how it is, for speaks first, and then against. Choose sides and begin. And let's try and keep it civil." She added, spotting the look on Cartman's face. The look that promised certain death.
"So, uh, I'm actually for censorship in the media." Jack said, "I have a little brother and I don't think he should be seeing some stuff." Ms. Murray nodded.
"Cartman, do you think you could represent against, then?"
"Oh absolutely." Cartman said sweetly. "Go ahead, Jack. Make my day." Jack gave him a puzzled look, before standing in front of the podium and facing the class.
"Well, I don't think that some things should be shown on television." He said uncertainly. "Like I said, I have a little brother, and I don't think younger kids should be able to see anything that the TV stations decide to broadcast. Like violence, and language, and sexual stuff. It just isn't ok to put that stuff on TV. If people want to see it, they should rent a movie, or buy channels with that stuff or something." He looked at Cartman, who got the hint that it must be his turn now. He stepped towards the podium.
"TV stations should be able to show whatever the hell they want." He said. "Just because something's on TV doesn't mean your kid brother has to watch it. It's not the job of the TV stations to determine what kids should see - that's the parents' job. You shouldn't rely on television as a babysitter for children - that's not what it's intended for, and if you're just plopping your kid down in front of a TV with a remote and letting them watch whatever, well then obviously they're going to end up watching something they shouldn't be. If everything on TV was rated G, then those of us who aren't four years old would be bored out of our minds. Censorship is a stupid idea, unless it's done by the parents and not the broadcasting stations." He stepped back from the podium, and Ms. Murray raised an eyebrow.
"Well what about other kinds of censorship?" She prompted, "Do the two of you think that certain things should be censored and others shouldn't?"
"No." Cartman said, looking at Jack as though daring the other boy to contradict him. "Either it's all ok or none of it is. Seriously, anything else is just messed up."
"Dude, that's messed up." Jack said, speaking directly to Cartman for the first time in the debate. "You can't tell me that, like, swearing and nudity and stuff isn't worse than violence, cuz it totally is! I mean, violence is like, less ... scarring to children."
"No it isn't, you tower of stupid." Cartman said, "Violence is probably worse, and we're not even talking about children anymore!"
"Well you're just a douche-bag!" Jack said, clearly upset by the 'tower of stupid' comment. "You want to show like, friggin sex scenes to children and stuff!"
"Look, ape-tits, you're the one who thinks that you should let kids watch anything they want! That's way worse than anything I said!"
"Whoa, boys-"
"No it isn't! And it's not what I said! Stop fucking with my words!"
"I'll fuck with whatever I want, asshole!"
"BOYS!" Ms. Murray shouted, attempting to get their attention, "Clearly this debate is too much for you, so maybe you had both better just sit down and let someone else take the floor." Cartman froze. He couldn't give up this easily. Jack's eyes weren't even watering yet.
"I think we both had such strong feelings on the topic that we couldn't help but yell about it." Cartman suggested calmly. Ms. Murray blinked. "Maybe if we had a less controversial topic we would be able to express ourselves more clearly." Ms. Murray sighed and looked through the cards she held with debate topics written on them.
"All right, I'll give you one more chance. Should more money be given to schools?"
"No." Cartman said, at the same moment Jack said "Yes."
"All right." Ms. Murray said, "Explain."
"We need more money." Jack said earnestly, "For new uniforms for the football team! The ones we're using now are like, ten years old and all of the other teams have newer ones. We look like we can't afford to get new stuff. Also we had to cut the budget for homecoming this year, which just sucks." While he spoke, Ms. Murray was summoned into the hallway by another teacher, and Cartman seized his opportunity.
"Dude, homecoming's stupid anyway." Carman remarked. "It's just a chance for you stupid jocks to blow all the money the school happens to get on a huge party for no reason, and a couple of fake crowns for the biggest douches. It's an embarrassment."
"Homecoming promotes school unity!" Jack said, turning slightly pinkish. Finally.
"School unity my ass, it promotes you getting to wear tight little pants and a faggy cape. That's not unity that's just dumb. The school shouldn't get more money cuz it needs to learn to not spend the money it does get on useless crap like that."
"It's not crap! It's a tradition you fucking dick!" Jack said.
"Look ass-sucker, it's a tradition that makes no sense and uses up most of the funds that the school gets for sports! I mean, I hate sports, but I'd rather get new volleyball nets or something than a ceremony that means you get to show off how gay you are. I mean, what you do on your own time is fine with me, but whatever."
"Stop calling me gay!" Jack said, face completely red by now. "You just hate homecoming because there's no chance that you'd ever get nominated for king, because everyone hates you! No wonder you hate homecoming! It just reminds you of what a loser you are!" Cartman didn't usually get riled by debates, but at this, he felt his hackles rise.
"Listen you little bitch, I couldn't care less about homecoming, and homecoming king! Anyone who actually wants that has no life!"
"Like you, you mean!"
"Or maybe you don't like it because you get to wear tight pants and a faggy crown, maybe you like it because you like to see other guys in tight pants. Is that why, Jack? Got something to tell us, ass-pirate? Is homecoming the most wonderful time of the year because it's like a big, fat homo-fest?"
And that's when Jack's fist collided with Cartman's head, and everything went dark.
It was only dark for a second, but it was enough to thoroughly confuse and piss off Cartman, who was already somewhat annoyed, and certainly in no mood to be punched. He opened his eyes to see his classmates looking horrified, Jack looking satisfied, and Ms. Murray standing in the doorway looking outraged. In fact, she looked about the way Cartman felt.
"What has been going on in here?" She asked, striding over to where Cartman was sitting up on the floor. She knelt next to him and looked at his face, which was hurting like a mother, though he didn't want to admit it.
"This asshole punched me because I was making a better argument than he was!" Cartman shouted. "I think he should be expelled for such violent behavior!"
"He called me gay!" Jack said, and his classmates nodded.
"I did not!" Cartman said, "Not really! They can tell you, and you douche-bags had better not side with the Great White Wonder just because he prances around in tights every week, or ah swear to Christ-!"
"You see! This is exactly what he was doing!" Jack interjected, doing his best to look as though he were the wronged one and not the one who had just punched out another kid.
"How is calling someone gay even an insult?" Cartman shot back, figuring there had to be enough liberals in the room that someone would agree.
"We'll figure this out in the counselor's office!" Ms Murray said. "Now both of you, come with me!" She walked out of the room and Jack and Cartman, looking as though they were about to kill each other, followed her.
Lunch was unusually lame. Kenny was eating a pop tart, Kyle was trying to make sense of a ridiculously complicated math problem, Cartman was nowhere to be found, and Stan was halfheartedly chewing on a spork while staring longingly over at the table where Wendy and Bebe were seated, chatting animatedly. Kyle glanced up from his notebook, and sighed.
"Dude, you're about to cross the line from 'socially acceptable behavior' right into 'creepy'. He was being nice. Stan had crossed over into 'creepy' years ago. The spork fell out of Stan's mouth as he hastily tried to look innocent.
"I wasn't-"
"You were." Kyle said tersely. He was getting more than a little tired of all this Wendy talk. It was all he ever heard about from Stan anymore. Stan looked beseechingly at Kenny, who put down the pop tart and nodded.
"It's pretty pathetic."
"Well the next time you set someone on fire and are wracked by guilt, don't come whining to me." Stan snapped. Kyle opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by Cartman stomping up to their table and dropping his tray on it, looking murderous.
"Gentleman," He began in the tone of voice that said someone's personal belongings were about to be set on fire, "Something must be done about Jock." Stan looked up at this, looking as though Christmas had come early.
"Yes," He said, "I agree – what should we do to him? The more cruel and unusual the better."
"No." Kyle said flatly, "Nothing illegal – or at least don't plan it while I'm around – I don't want to be charged as an accessory, not after last time." Cartman ignored both of them.
"Do you know what that fucker did this morning?" Without waiting for an answer he continued, in that same eerily calm tone, "He punched me during a debate. And then when the teacher took us to the principal, she wouldn't do shit about it, all 'mistakes were made on both sides' and 'I'm sure you are both very sorry' – it's bullshit, she just wants him to be able to play in the homecoming game against West Park next week!"
"Yeah, well, what are you going to do about it?" Kenny asked, leaning forward in what Kyle could only assume was morbid curiosity.
"Hit him where it hurts." Cartman said. "I need time to sort out the details – meet me after school in my Shakey's."
After the last bell of the day rang, setting the students free from their academic prison, Stan found himself walking alone to his locker, after swearing to Cartman to be at Shakey's by three. Though often unmotivated, whenever there were pranks or vengeance involved, Cartman became nothing short of a machine, extracting retribution in mentally scarring, often borderline-psychotic ways.
Stan didn't want to admit it to himself, but he kind of wanted to see Jack suffer.
He was so preoccupied with wondering what Cartman could possibly have in mind that he nearly walked into Wendy, who was standing by his locker, looking anxious.
"Hi Stan!" She blurted, after he stepped quickly backwards, narrowly avoiding stepping on her new boots.
"H-hi Wendy," He managed. They hadn't had much contact since the Hair Incident, as Stan thought of it. Apart from small talk exchanged in class they had, in fact, barely spoken. "What's up?"
"Well I was looking over my notes and I noticed some inconsistencies, and I was just wondering if I could borrow yours." She asked. Stan nodded, already fishing around in his backpack… notes… notes…where are the fucking notes? He found them at last, shoved helter-skelter into his Government notebook, and pulled them out, smoothing them as much as possible but still wincing at the barely-legible chicken scratch.
"Um… thanks," She said, carefully putting them in her binder. Stan couldn't help but notice that all of her notes were clearly written and seemed to be arranged by lecture. He suddenly felt unworthy to stand in her presence.
"No problem," He muttered, "Well… I should go. Gotta meet the guys." She nodded.
"Yeah… I wouldn't want to keep you." She made no move towards the exit however. Stan wondered if she was going to yell at him. He suddenly began to feel nauseous.
"Well… see ya!" He yelped, turned, and bolted. It wasn't until he was halfway down the hall before he realized that to get to his car he should be heading the opposite direction.
Stan got to Shakey's only ten minutes late. He walked in to find the other three already seated at their usual table – even though they were the only ones to ever come in here, they still had a 'usual' table, in the same location as their table at the regular, non-fetus-formed Shakey's: close enough to the arcade but not too far from the kitchen.
"Where the hell have you been?" Cartman's voice greeted him.
"Nowhere," Stan half-yelped in a voice that was at least half an octave above his usual speaking voice, hurrying to take a seat. This garnered very odd looks from both Kyle and Kenny but Cartman only nodded – he was a man on a mission. He'd caught the scent of blood in the water and there was no stopping him now. He turned to a large easel that was standing beside the table, with what looked like an outline of the school drawn on it, and pulled out a pointer.
"All right, well, the reason I've called you all hnyah today is to discuss the impending downfall of Jock the Jock. Being what he is it can be safe to say that his favorite thing is probably football. And what's the biggest football game of the season?" No one said anything, "That's right. Homecoming." Stan's heart sank. It was one thing to ruin Jack's life but to ruin Homecoming?
"Remember the rules," Kyle said suddenly, and Cartman nodded dismissively.
"I know, I know: no felonies, nothing that could come back to bite us in the ass, and no felonies." He said, reciting the three prank rules the boys lived by. After the Great Shitstorm of 2005 (which had started out to be an innocent plumbing-related prank and ended up being an actual shitstorm) they had agreed rules were needed. "My plan is foolproof. Allow me to explain – Phase One involves you, Kenny, since you're the fastest one out of all of us…"
Tuesday, September 24
"Cartman, I'm talking to you. Are you even listening?"
Eric looked up from the various diagrams he was sketching in his math notebook to find Wendy looking at him, brows drawn together in suspicion.
"What are you drawing?" She asked, leaning over to try and see. He slammed his notebook shut.
"Nice try Wendy but you'll never get ahead by cheating. Do your own homework." She scowled and Cartman felt gratified.
"You know that's not what I was doing, asshole. Anyway, as I was saying – I really, really hope you're not planning to do anything terrible to Jack." She said, with a look that clearly said I know you're planning to do something terrible and probably illegal to Jack.
"Relax your balls, bitch, I don't want anything to do with that douche-cruiser." He said casually. Because it was true; he didn't want anything to do with Jack – all he wanted was for Jack to die painfully, and as he refused to oblige, Cartman was forced to put him in his place. It didn't mean he wanted to.
Though he did want to.
Wendy sighed. "Look, all I'm asking is that you don't ruin homecoming. Can you at least promise me you won't- I don't know – blow up the football stadium? Or – or burn all their uniforms?" Cartman held up a hand.
"All excellent ideas, but I would never operate in such an unsubtle way." He told her, "If I were planning to do anything to him, and I'm not."
"I don't believe you." She said flatly, "He told me he hit you, and while I think that was a shitty thing for him to do, I don't think you making him eat his parents will help any." Cartman threw his hands in the air.
"That was one time! Jesus Christ, you throw one little Chili Con Carnival and no one ever forgets it!" Wendy rolled her eyes and went back to her math homework.
Friday, September 27
The four of them met in the empty gym, as planned, at six. The game was scheduled to start at seven, with halftime taking place probably around eight-thirty, according to Cartman's estimations. For his part, Cartman had slicked his hair back and was wearing an old military-style jacket, and feeling on top of the world. The air drifting through the open door smelled faintly of rain and victory – the night was theirs.
"All right," Cartman said, "Men, it's time. This is the hour in which we right the wrongs that have been committed within these hallowed halls. It's time to take your places. I wish you all good luck, and Godspeed." And with a salute, he was gone, walking through the open doors, out towards the stadium, leaving Stan, Kyle, and Kenny to look at each other.
"So … are we actually going to do this?" Kyle asked the other two, half-hoping they would say 'of course not, dumbass, we're going back to Stan's place to watch Top Chef'. No such luck, however, as Kenny and Stan immediately nodded.
"Dude I hate to say this, but this plan is pretty much flawless." Stan told him, "And I think Jack could stand to be knocked down a peg. Anyway, it follows the rules." He shrugged.
"Yeah but – maybe we need a few more rules." Kyle protested halfheartedly, more out of obligation than anything else – he felt like someone had to be the voice of reason, and it was usually either him or Stan. And Stan was certainly not stepping up to the plate this time.
"Fuck rules," Stan said finally, pulling out several ski masks and handing one each to Kyle and Kenny, "Let's go."
PHASE ONE: North Hallway, 18:06:45
"Hey Craig!" Craig turned around, and Stan and Kyle walked over to him. He was holding his mascot gear – the suit stuffed in a backpack and the giant cow head in his hands. His face fell when he saw them.
"Oh, hey guys. You're kind of early for the game." Stan nodded.
"Yeah, we were actually looking for you." He said. Too obvious: Craig's eyebrows shot up and he tightened his grip on the cow head. Kyle cleared his throat.
"We just wanted to show you something. The decorating crew's going to show up in a couple hours to get the gym ready for the homecoming dance and we decided to prank 'em." Craig relaxed – his first mistake.
"Oh okay. I can't be gone too long, though, I gotta go warm up with the cheerleaders in half an hour." He said, following Stan and Kyle as they led him to the gym and his doom.
"Yeah, yeah, you'll be back in time to warm up with the cheerleaders." Stan said impatiently. Kyle, however, saw an opening.
"So you warm up with the cheerleaders? Like for pregame? What all do you do, exactly?" Craig puffed out his chest – he took his job as mascot very seriously, mostly because a lot of it involved hanging around with scantily-clad girls.
"Not a lot – we just kind of dance around and act all excited while the football players run in. And then during the game they do cheers and I screw around. Easiest job in the world." Kyle nodded.
"Good to know, man." They entered the gym, which was dark – they hadn't wanted to attract attention by turning on the lights – and completely devoid of any pranks, save the one they were currently operating on Craig.
"There's nothing in here." Craig said, ever slow on the uptake. Kyle closed the door and they put on the ski masks, which had cleverly been stowed away in their back pockets. Kenny, who had been perched on a stack of gym mats, also donned his, and strolled over. Realization began to dawn. "Oh son of a bitch. Whatever it is, I'll go quietly – I don't want to end up in the trunk of Kyle's mom's car with socks in my mouth like last time!" Stan clapped him on the shoulder.
"Good for you, Craig, nice to know you learned something. All we need is the mascot uniform." Craig hesitated.
"I dunno guys, this is school property."
"What if we guaranteed you we could get it back to you in a few hours, in, uh, relatively good condition?" Kyle asked. Craig thought this over.
"All right. But don't tell me anything else – I don't even want to know. So when they ask me, I can plead innocence." Stan stuck his hand out, and Craig shook it.
"Deal. Now hold still while we tie you up." Craig sighed and did so. Within minutes he was seated comfortably on a gym mat, hands and legs tied, and gagged with a handkerchief which was, it had to be said, much better than a sock. Kenny put on the mascot uniform while Kyle briefed him on the general duties of a mascot, while Stan dragged two huge bags of steer manure and a massive Gatorade barrel out of the corner of the gym. Craig's eyes widened at this.
"Okay," Stan said, "So we'll get this shit in place, and you do the rest."
"Sounds like a plan," Kenny said, pulling on the giant cow head, "Now I guess I've got a date with the cheerleading squad." He saluted them, and was gone, walking casually out of the gym.
"Godspeed, Kenny!" Kyle yelled after him, before turning his attention to the manure. "And now for the fun part…"
PHASE ONE: South Park High Football Stadium: 18:47:24
Cartman had left the gym to drive his car around the block for the better part of an hour, before finally parking over by the stadium, where kids were already starting to show up. His part in this plan was necessarily small – he was just going to sit in the bleachers and watch the game. He would much rather have been in on the action with Stan and Kyle, but by this time most of the school knew Jack had punched him, so he had to have an alibi.
There was a perk, however: He would have a front-row seat.
He bought a ticket and walked over to the rapidly-filling bleachers. There, third row and center – close enough that he would be able to smell success, which in this case would smell an awful lot like bull shit. He walked over and sat, not caring that he looked kind of lame sitting there by himself. He was too preoccupied by being a magnificent bastard.
"… Cartman?"
Shit. He looked over. Of course it was Wendy, it was always Wendy. Girl needed to get a hobby that involved being far, far away from Cartman at all times. He didn't bother pretending to look happy to see her.
"Yeah?" She was one row up from him, and sat down, tucking her hair behind her ear.
"What the hell are you doing here? You hate football?"
"Extra credit for my Biology class," He lied.
"You already need extra credit this early in the year?" She said incredulously. He ignored this.
"Are you here alone? No group of dumbass preppy friends to shield you from the underhumans?" He asked, looking at his watch – nearly game time, and then maybe she'd shut up. She frowned.
"They're getting drinks. I told them I'd save them seats." And with that she opened her purse and dug out a book – A Tale of Two Cities this time, and started to read. Cartman, happy to stop talking to her, turned his attention back to the field where the cheerleaders and the mascot suit were gathering. As he watched, the bull reached up and tugged twice on one of its ears. Cartman grinned – that was the signal. Phase one had gone off without a hitch.
PHASE TWO: The South Park High Football Stadium, 19:41:34
Dragging the huge manure-filled Gatorade barrel over to the stadium was actually a lot easier than it looked.
They hadn't filled it up all the way – it had to be light enough for Kenny to lift by himself – but they were each holding an end, to give the impression that it was filled with liquid. They got up to the stadium ticket booth, and stopped, making a big show of putting it down and stretching.
"Can I help you?" asked the guy who was running the ticket booth – probably the parent of one of the football players, Stan assumed. He patted the barrel.
"Just gotta get this inside. It's homecoming and all and the guys on the team wanted to play a little joke on the coach." He said with a smile. "You know… team spirit… teen spirit…" he trailed off as the man eyed him suspiciously.
"And who are you, exactly?" He asked. Stan looked at Kyle – they hadn't planned on being questioned.
"Water boys." Kyle said smoothly. "We've been here, watching the game; we just left to go grab the Gatorade. You know, in time for halftime." The men nodded.
"All right, go on in." Stan saluted him and they both picked up the barrel, grunting at its supposed weight, and shuffled inside, down the pathway around towards the bleachers. Stan could just barely make out Cartman, sitting a couple rows up in the center, right in front of Wendy and a group of girls. His heart skipped a beat, and he looked away.
"Good thinking, dude." He said, "Water boys – genius."
"I knew someone would ask." Kyle said. They headed over to the bleachers, over to the raised area where the homecoming queen and king would later be crowned, and set the barrel down directly behind it. Kenny would be able to get to it easily but there was no change any of the football players would try to drink out of it. The manure planted, they kept walking, past the pavilion, cheerleaders, and fans out to the far side of the bleachers, where they hid just behind them. They would be missing the main event, as they would have to bail out right before half time, but for now they just had to sit and wait. Kyle wiped his hands on his ski mask, looking disgusted.
"Dude, we reek – no wonder that guy was suspicious."
"That's the smell of success." Stan replied, peeking out at the scoreboard – not that long, now, and they would be starting the homecoming proceedings. Not that it would be a shock to anyone when Jack and Bebe won.
"Whatever, I just hope we'll have time to shower before the dance," Stan turned back around and sat down at the base of the bleachers. He'd almost forgotten about the dance in all the excitement. Cartman had insisted that they all go – that they had to make an appearance to show their superiority or some elitist bullshit. Stan had agreed but really all he wanted was to get a moment alone with Wendy, to try and apologize again.
PHASE THREE: The South Park High Football Stadium, 20:23:02
Kenny was thoroughly enjoying his part in the plan. Cheerleaders, everywhere he looked, and they didn't even care if he danced with them. They kind of liked it, actually. By the time halftime rolled around he was seriously considering stealing the job from Craig permanently.
Right now, however, there was work to be done.
He had located the barrel of manure a while ago, still standing beside the homecoming stage, where the contestants were not lined up. Kenny inched over in that direction while the Homecoming court was announced. No one was paying attention to him, however, as all eyes were on the stage, where the Homecoming King nominees had just been called on to line up at the front of the stage. He grabbed the barrel, and walked over to the front of the makeshift stage, where the stairs were.
"And, Ladies and Gentleman," the announcer began, "It's time to crown the Homecoming King. This year's king is…" He opened up the envelope in his hands and Kenny tensed slightly – if it was someone other than Jack their plans were all for nothing – " Jack Johnson!" The other boys slunk out of sight, looking somewhat relieved, and Jack stepped forward, while the announcer stepped forward to crown him.
The second the crown was securely in place and the announcer had stepped away, Kenny was ripping the top off the Gatorade barrel and dashing up the stairs. Jack had only a second of surprised confusion before the barrel was overturned and he was covered in shit.
And then Kenny was off like a shot, sprinting across the field as fast as he could, ripping off the cow head in the process. He was wearing a ski mask underneath, of course. Holding the head tightly, he ran across the parking lot, down the halls, and to the gym, where he staggered in and collapsed on Craig's mat.
"Phase three complete," He gasped, tossing the head out into the middle of the gym floor. Stan and Kyle grinned. They were both wearing their masks now also. Kenny noticed that they had brought the coat rack in from Stan's car and set it next to Craig. He shimmied out of the costume and hung it on the rack, setting the cow head on top, before stepping back to admire his handiwork.
"Beautiful," Stan announced. "How was it? Was he pissed? Was he like, covered in it?" Kenny grinned.
"Completely covered. And probably pissed but I had to bail so I didn't catch the full reaction. We can ask Cartman for a play-by-play later."
"All right," Kyle said, "And now we head back to Stan's place to clean up and get ready. Cartman will meet us there when they game's over. Good work, guys," And with a final salute, the three of them left the gym, leaving Craig sitting on the mat next to the uniform for the decorating crew to find.
Cartman spent the second half of the game in a daze of happiness and fulfilled expectations. After seeing Kenny sprint off into the night, halfheartedly chased by some of the staff, and Jack escorted off the field and to the locker room by the coach, and Bebe accept her crown, thoroughly pissed that now everyone was too busy speculating about who was behind this to care, walking into the homecoming dance completely above suspicion was just going to be icing on the cake.
Once the game was over, he stood up to go find his car and drive over to Stan's house, but his way was blocked, yet again, by Wendy.
"Jesus Christ, you need to wear a bell or something," he said.
"You had something to do with this." She accused. She had a very strange expression on her face – it wasn't the rage he expected. It was almost as though she was trying very hard to look angry and only halfway succeeding. "That was Kenny in the mascot uniform – he's the only one of you guys who's that fast."
"Try and prove it," Cartman said, trying to sidestep her and failing.
"You didn't blow up the stadium," She was saying, "Or set anyone on fire, or cause any irreparable damage. You just dumped manure all over the quarterback." He noticed that the corner of her mouth kept twitching. Was she laughing?
"Well someone certainly did." He said nonchalantly. "Oh look, there's the asshole now." He said, nodding towards the field. Wendy turned to look and Cartman slipped around her, running off towards the parking lot before she could follow. Bitch had to be huffing paint or something – no way would Wendy Testaburger ever think dumping manure on someone's head was funny.
Stan located Wendy half an hour into the homecoming dance, and he managed to get her alone about an hour or so after that. It was amazing how Bebe and Wendy were all but attached at the hip, and all of their jock and cheerleader friends made an impenetrable shield around them, barring all lesser life forms from interacting with them.
Finally he managed to intercept her coming back from the bathroom, amazingly alone. Even so, he had to practically walk directly into her to get her attention. She was in a cute black dress that, while not conservative, certainly seemed so next to what Bebe was wearing, and her hair was held off her face with an equally unobtrusive black clip.
"Hi Wendy," He said, trying to look as nonchalant as possible after walking right up to her. She stopped walking and smiled at him, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she did so.
"Hi, Stan." She said, "Did you just get here? I haven't seen you all night." He shrugged, not wanting to tell her that he hadn't been able to claw his way through her wall of friends. To be perfectly honest, it was really Bebe's wall of friends, but Stan wasn't going to say that either. At least he hadn't thrown up yet.
"No, I've been here the whole time." He said, and hesitated. "Wendy, I, um, I know I'm the last person you'd want to hear this from, but you, well you look nice with short hair." She smiled again.
"You know, it's so much easier to take care of now. And I would never have cut it off if you hadn't set it on fire." He cocked his head.
"I thought you said you wanted to donate it?" She blushed and looked at her shoes.
"I did, but I've actually tried to donate it lots of times, but I always chickened out. I wouldn't have really done it, no matter what I said before." Stan nodded, wondering what was wrong with girls that they were so emotionally attached to their hair.
"So does this mean you forgive me, then?" He asked hopefully. She looked up.
"Of course! Did you think I'd been mad at you this entire time?" She asked him, comprehension dawning on her face.
"Well . . . yeah." He said, "You didn't talk to me as much as you did before, so I thought..." Wendy giggled, grabbing his right hand in both of hers.
"Stan, you're such an idiot! The only reason I didn't talk to you was because you weren't talking to me!" He snickered too, though he could feel the nausea beginning in his stomach, caused by her holding his hand.
"I only didn't talk to you because I thought you hated me!" He said, shaking his head, "We're both idiots." She laughed and let go of his hand.
"Well then I'm glad you finally said something." She told him. "Because I never hated you. I was only mad because you lit my hair on fire - anyone would be." The fast, nameless song that had been playing stopped, and a slower one started up. Wendy listened, and smiled. "Ooh, I like this song. Do you want -"
"Wendy! There you are!" Bebe walked over, wearing practically nothing, followed by Clyde and Jack, who frowned upon seeing Stan. He probably suspected Cartman for the whole manure business, and everyone knew they were friends. "We were wondering if you'd run into someone..." She trailed off, upon seeing that it was Stan. "Oh hi, Stan." She said dismissively, before turning back to Wendy. "Anyway, we were thinking of going back to Clyde's in a bit - his parents aren't home and they don't care if he has people over. Do you want to come along?"
"Uh..." Wendy hesitated, looking over at Stan, "I - "
"Hey, um, Wendy, how about a dance with the homecoming king?" Jack asked, sauntering closer to her, with all the confidence of a boy who knows that he isn't about to be turned down. Stan made a mental note to tell Cartman the manure hadn't quite had the desired effect – Jack still had self-esteem, and in spades. "This song's pretty sexy, don'cha think?"
"Oh, well, actually I was going to ask -" Bebe interfered, grabbing her friend's arm.
"Wendy, can I talk to you for a moment?" She asked, pulling Wendy away. They were far enough away that Stan could only hear unintelligible murmuring. He looked over at Jack and attempted a smile but only received a grunt in return.
"Wendy, are you crazy? Why the hell would you dance with Stan Marsh instead of Jack Jefferson, the homecoming king and captain of the football team?"
"Bebe, it's just a dance." Wendy pointed out, "And I was talking to Stan, so - "
"Wendy, you've liked Stan for years, and nothing has ever happened. Do you want to keep tormenting yourself when you don't have to? I think Jack really likes you, and you'd be stupid to waste your time on someone who doesn't like you back instead of someone who you could actually hook up with." Wendy hesitated for a moment, "Who hasn't set you on fire." Bebe added. That cinched it – Wendy was a forgiving person but the hair-burning incident was still very recent.
"You're right, Bebe. I've spent too much time thinking about Stan. I think I'll give Jack a chance."
"Good choice." The two girls walked back over to Stan and Jack, and Wendy took Jack's hand.
"I think I'll take you up on that dance." She said, grinning. "I'll see you in chemistry, Stan." And with that, Jack led her off before Stan could say anything. Not that he had anything to say. Bebe and Clyde had melted into the sea of dancers by now, and left him alone.
"God Fucking Damn it." He said, and went to go find his friends.
A/N: Reviews are always appreciated! :D And not gonna lie, they definitely make me more inclined to write.