ALL CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS FAN FICTION – EVEN THOSE BASED ON FICTIONAL PEOPLE– ARE ENTIRELY MADE-UP. ALL LOVECRAFT REFERENCES ARE RESEARCHED… POORLY. THE FOLLOWING STORY CONTAINS LEWD SEXUAL HUMOR AND DUE TO ITS LONG INTROSPECTIVE MONOLOGUES IT SHOULD NOT BE READ BY ANYONE. _|_|_|
Stan
The Wednesday after Kenny's birthday came faster than I'd expected. It was huge, too, since he would not shut up about it. Since high school started, getting out of the house on Wednesday nights had become much, much easier. It was routine, it had always been routine. And every one of us lived for it. Us, of course, meaning the League.
Under the usual pretense of having a weekly study session at Token's—an easy lie, since the Blacks honestly had a library in their house—I left after dinner and joined Kyle and Cartman halfway. We kept conversation simple during the walk... things about school, and the latest crappy Hollywood remake of a former classic; Kyle asked me how everything was going with Wendy, and I asked Cartman how the pet hunt was going (which was a hard choice for a topic, since he was still torn up over the death of his childhood pet, Mr. Kitty). We did not mention anything dealing with the additional items each of us carried; I and Cartman cleverly having tucked all the essentials in among the books we packed to keep suspicion away from our respective mothers, and Kyle with his additional nondescript briefcase.
Only when we reached the high-end side of town, where the Blacks' resplendent yellow mansion stood surrounded by nothing but high gates, high trees, and deep, fresh snow, did things change. The mansion itself was not our destination that night, but a smaller building beyond a smaller gate, barred by a lock, the code to which changed weekly. While Cartman and I kept watch, Kyle clicked the five numbers for that night into place, swung the gate open for the three of us, then pulled it closed and replaced the lock. We then traveled down a snow-dusted path, each of us kicking bits of snow behind us every few paces to cover our tracks. This was second-nature to us by now; this was the third year running we had come, every Wednesday, to this particular spot. After the usual five-minute walk through a bit of forestry, we came across the small auxiliary building, which was still on Token's parents' land, and could be passed off as a storage facility if Mr. or Mrs. Black were ever to be asked about it. The lights inside the large one-storey building were on, indicating that we three were not the first to have arrived, and a figure stood outside the door, leaning against the wall and lit up by the glow of a cell phone.
"Marjorine?" Kyle greeted once we were close enough to catch who the figure was. "You came tonight?"
"Hey, fellas," Marjorine smiled, lifting her head meekly to give us her attention. She was hardly dressed for the weather, like many of the girls in South Park tended to be this time of year, with the promise of spring just around the corner: she huddled inside a fuzzy, light blue sweater, but her knees knocked together under a high-hemmed brown skirt, with little else between that and her boots. I was surprised, too: Marjorine tended to be a little body-conscious, especially concerning—as we all heard when it was 'her day'—hands, feet and legs. "I was just finishin' a phone call."
"Butte—Marjorine," Cartman sighed, "you know you shouldn't make calls from here, they can trace 'em online."
"Oh, but this isn't a computer phone," Marjorine explained. "I have a different one. Butters' phone is at home."
"Still, I have to agree," Kyle said, "you should be careful."
"Speaking of..." I remembered, digging into my pocket and switching my own cell off. I don't have a computer-linked phone either. The other guys generally do, so that they can keep up with Facebook and all that at any time—Clyde especially seems glued to his—but that kind of thing never really interested me. I don't need Facebook, or news alerts sent to my phone. If I want to find out about something I'll ask, or watch the news, or read a paper. I'm probably in the minority of high schoolers who read newspapers, but I don't really care.
My action alerted the other three to do the same thing, Marjorine a little reluctantly. "Plus," Cartman found it necessary to add, "we can't always trust you."
Marjorine gave a nervous laugh, and twisted her low ponytail with one index finger. "Don't worry about it, Eric," she grinned up at him. "It's him you have to worry about. Not me."
"Butters, I swear..." Cartman muttered.
"Marjorine," Marjorine corrected him. "Butters hasn't been feeling well," she added, standing away from the wall and patting Cartman on the arm, "so get used to seeing a lot of me, sweetie."
Before the situation could become any more awkward for him, Cartman cleared his throat and knocked on the heavy wooden door. It took only seconds until the door was checked from the inside, then unbolted and opened to reveal a satisfied-looking Clyde, who rushed us in so as not to let too much cold air in. He shivered once under his zipped-up red sweatshirt before finally greeting, "Hey, guys, seven exactly! Glad you could all make it."
"Are you kidding me?" I said eagerly. "We're really onto something, apparently. Wouldn't have missed this week for anything."
"I was just saying to Marjorine before you all got here, I'm surprised she's not grounded," Clyde laughed as he led us from the atrium toward the mudroom and kitchenette, where Token was pouring himself a cup of coffee. He lifted his mug to us as we entered, and I at least nodded in return, both of us indicating that we'd all catch up later.
"I can't believe your parents are still so strict," Kyle marveled as he shrugged his backpack off and slid it into the shelf marked KB:HK. The back wall of the mudroom, which existed as the point at which we ceased speaking about whatever happened during the meetings, was entirely shelves and safes, marked with our own initials and a signifyer for our League identities. Mine, for example, read SM:T; Cartman's EC:C, and so on—TB:TW, CD:M, TB:IM, the honorary BS/MS:PC, and the seldom-filled and oft-ignored BB:MBC. A new shelf was being added on, on the lowest level, for our newest addition: Kyle's ten-year-old brother, Ike. Whether or not Ike would be at that night's meeting was something even Kyle did not know, nor was he now at liberty to discuss the possibility.
"Well," said Marjorine, blushing as she set her cell phone into her safe, "they try, anyway. He's neurotic, you know; they don't like that. And I, well... they don't really like me..."
"Sure, they like you," I said to boost her confidence. "You're their kid. All parents like their kids to some degree."
"That's a debate for the ages," Kenny's voice came from outside the mudroom. We had all finished tucking our belongings away and hanging our coats and hats—with the exception of Kyle, who preferred to leave his hat on—and left with Clyde to join Token and, now, Kenny, in the front rooms.
"Hey, Kenny," Kyle and I said simultaneously. Kenny smiled a little before hiding himself behind his mug of coffee. I wanted to change the subject as soon as possible, since the last thing we needed was Kenny getting angry about his family that night. In his defense, though, the guy had it pretty bad. His ramshackle house stood on the other end of town, far from the decadence that surrounded Token's neck of the woods... far even from the comfort of the middle class that most of us thrived in. It was no secret that Headquarters felt more like home to Kenny than his parents' house. The McCormicks lived in poverty, and had since before Kenny was born. He was generally quiet about the states of affairs regarding his family, preferring to put up his best image as just another friend.
Though he did not want it to look like a blantant act of charity, Token often offered up Headquarters to Kenny for the night, and Kenny quietly accepted. Headquarters had, in fact, been mostly Kenny's idea, and a lot of the planning had been done by him on and off for three years before the idea was finally implemented. After all, Kenny had been in operation undercover for slightly longer than the rest of us. It was his racket first, and we all saw him as entitled to claim ownership over Headquarters and the League, despite it taking Cartman's name and being mostly under Clyde's leadership.
It was Clyde who brought the conversation around by ushering us all into the common area. This was the main room of the front of HQ… we kept the meeting room out back. It was the room Mr. and Mrs. Black hadn't seen since we as a group repurposed it, so to speak. The common area, though, was your average living room. Sofa, TV, scattered chairs, that kind of thing. Essentially, the place could double as a rec room. Most of us had rec rooms, in our home basements, hell, even Token had an actual rec room… he was just rich enough to have another one, too. And nobody questioned that. We kept a computer in that room, too, but all our mainframe computers were out back. This was just our place to hang, in general, where we'd shoot the shit before meetings, and sometimes wind up on odd afternoons anyway. The common room also had a stocked minifridge, despite the fact that the kitchenette was only a good ten feet away from the sofa. Whatever. The more convenient shit was, the better.
"Who's on food tonight?" Cartman griped as we all found seats around the place. He, as usual, claimed the left side of the sofa. "I'm starving."
"God, think about something else," Token complained as he walked in with his coffee. "Here," he added, chucking the remote at Cartman, "find a good channel. Occupy your brain with something other than food." Cartman shot him a glare, but went about his task all the same. "What's up, guys?" our host then said to me and Kyle.
I'd made right for the mini-fridge, where I grabbed two root beers and tossed one to Kyle, who had claimed a seat in an overstuffed tan bean bag chair off to the far right of the sofa. "Nothing," Kyle answered, twisting the cap off the soda.
"Yep," I agreed, taking a seat straddling the mini-fridge as I opened my own bottle. "Same old, same old. Can't wait till fuckin' spring break, though."
"Noooo kidding," Clyde chimed in. "Hey," he added, ticking his head over to the blonde in pigtails, "Marjorine, get in here. You're in the group tonight, too."
"Oh," said Marjorine, kneading her knuckles together, "I don't wanna be—"
"Fuck's sake, get in here," I told her.
"Right here," said Clyde, pointing to the spot in the middle of the sofa. Cartman rolled his eyes.
Kenny helped out by giving Marjorine a little shove as he crossed over to sit in the chair off to Kyle's right. It was funny how the three of us always seemed to migrate together, no matter what setting. Once, in middle school, Kenny had mumbled something about feeling like a 'third wheel' around me and Kyle, but I'd shrugged it off, and since then, we were a bit more of a threesome. Cartman had his moments, but he loved himself so Goddamn much we didn't feel like excluding him (whenever we did) was anything devastating.
"Hey!" Marjorine scolded Kenny from where she stood. "Don't shove a lady like that."
"Whatever, Marjorine, you're not much of a lady," Cartman muttered, clicking through channels.
Marjorine's face flushed red, and just when she seemed like she'd explode, there was a knock at the door. She stormed off in that direction, muttering, "I'll get it," while the rest of us glared at Cartman for his insensitivity.
Clyde went ahead and punched him. "AYE!" Cartman yelped.
"Dude, not cool," Clyde warned.
"Yeah, dude, Marjorine's fragile," Kyle added.
"Fragile my balls, he's also Professor Chaos," Cartman spat back. Well, none of us could argue that.
Luckily, none of us had to. At that very moment, a familiar high voice rang out from the entrance: "You guys are all dicks!" I glanced over at Kyle, and we both immediately started laughing. The voice belonged to none other than Ike Broflovski. Despite his upbringing, a hint of his Canadian roots came out in his voice more and more as the kid grew up. I think it's just ingrained in Canadian blood or something. Regional pronunciations usually came out especially when Ike was irate.
Ike, short for a sixth-grader due to his young age, still dressed for the weather in a blue and black knit cap, blue trench coat, and black snowpants and boots, stormed into the common area, with Marjorine following him with a stack of four large pizza boxes. "All right!" Kenny grinned. "Pizza's here!"
"Pizza's here my ass!" Ike complained, yanking his hat off and flinging it at Kenny, who dodged it in a fit of laughter. "Who sends the ten-year-old across town in this much snow? Next time we order out!"
"We can't order out from here and you know it," said Token plaintively, taking the pizza boxes from Marjorine. He walked over and kicked me off the mini-fridge in order to use it as a table for the boxes. I complied and stole half of the bean bag from Kyle instead. "Plus, sorry, kid, you lost the contest to see who went."
"You could've called my brother!"
"No cell calls from here," Token reminded him, starting to laugh as well.
"You could've picked a contest other than arm wrestling, buddy!"
"Dude, what'd we miss?" I laughed.
"Ike being a pussy," Kenny smirked.
"It's called being fucking ten!" Ike bit back. "Sorry I haven't built up my upper arm strength yet."
"Soo-rry," Kyle, Kenny and I mocked him. 'Sorry' and 'about' were Ike's most Canadian words, and, damn, did we ever rip on him for it. He never attempted to make the adjustment to the American pronunciations, though, which was his own 'fuck you' to us, which we respected by continuing to berate him. Sheila would get on us about it, but I'd caught Gerald laughing with us a few times before.
Ike passively flipped us off, narrowing his black eyes, then made for the mudroom, leaving a wet trail of melting snow in his wake. Ike could fake emotions pretty well, but I'd known the kid long enough to tell the difference—he really was just joking around this time, he wasn't actually angry. When Ike got really angry, he got fussy and complained a lot. Around us, faking anger, he'd usually model his actions after what Kyle did when he got worked up.
Marjorine watched Ike leave, then silently entered the room and sat down on the middle cushion of the couch, making sure to sit ever so slightly more on Cartman's side than Clyde's. "He's pretty sore, huh?" she said, sounding hurt.
"Ike's fine," Kenny shrugged. "Kid'll get over it."
"Well, okay…"
"Ah, let's leave it," Token suggested. "Let's just eat."
Clyde made for the kitchenette to grab plates, and I assigned myself to soda duty, tossing around bottles and cans from the minifridge based on preferences. Ike walked back in, de-snowed, as Clyde was returning, and rolling in behind them was Timmy Burch, our wheelchair-bound friend and ally. According to Token, Timmy had been there for a while already, doing work. He and Ike were the ones in charge of keeping track of everything; despite mental handicaps, Timmy was exceptionally organized, especially when it came to the League, and he'd been spending a better part of the afternoon helping Clyde shelf documents and newspapers that detailed our old missions.
Conversation was light and stupid, as usual. Talking about things within the League rarely happened outside the meeting room and out of character. That was part of what being in the League really was: taking on an alter ego in order to accomplish things that we normally (read: within the law) would never have been able to do. Kenny and Butters were the biggest exceptions, since Mysterion and Professor Chaos were, respectively, more tethered to their normal selves than, say, Toolshed was to me, or Human Kite was to Kyle.
When seven-thirty rolled around, food and drinks were bussed away into the kitchenette, and we each found our way to the mudroom at various times to collect anything we needed for the evening. Clyde was the first to dismiss himself, as usual, followed by Cartman and then Kyle, based on the lengths of their respective preparation times. Token ducked out after Kyle, then Timmy, Ike, and Marjorine. Kenny and I remained discussing the events of last week for a few minutes more, and then I let the conversation die, claimed my belongings, and ambled into the back.
Something about Headquarters that had surprised me from the start, and still floored me was the fact that each of us had a room we could go to. They were small, but still, it was better than any of the rest of us would have been able to come up with if HQ was based at any of the rest of our houses. Yes, the Blacks were in on the whole thing, so we were easily accomodated for. Each room had a modest bed, a wardrobe, and plenty of room to prepare. They were more like cloakrooms than anything, but it was a place to shack up if we needed to.
It was strange, but comforting, how routine this all was. Sometimes, my conscience would catch me, and I would ask myself if what we were doing was strange for guys our age, but then I was able to console myself: 'strange' was too general a term for anything that happened in or to the residents of South Park, Colorado. 'Strange' was relative. What we were doing had merit, gave us confidence, and benefited the town, its justice system, and even the wellness of others far and abroad, who may never have even heard of our simple little mountain town. I did not know at the time whether or not Wendy knew of my involvement with the League, and my alibis were perfect, as our meetings took place on the same night as her feminist book club meetings. If she did know, I never asked, and she never mentioned it.
My family certainly did not know, nor did any of our families, relatives, or significant others. The only exceptions were Token's parents, Cartman's mom, who forgot from time to time anyway, and a few of Timmy's relatives, since he was an exception for transportation. Ike, roughly now the same age we had been when 'Coon and Friends' was first established, had pieced together his brother's secret identity when one of Kyle's stories to his parents hadn't quite lined up. Ike had covered for Kyle that night, and subsequently expressed interest in working with us. Kyle was skeptical to let his younger brother join, but in the end, there was really no stopping him.
Kyle and I generally came up with lies that involved each other, as they were easy to sell, and we had been coming up with similar stories for years. The Wednesday night meetings were an easy cover, but sometimes it would be something along the lines of, "Stan needs me to fix a bug on his computer," or, "Kyle and I are heading out to work on a science project," or, more recently, "We have band practice." The band cover wasn't wholly a lie, but we didn't use it often, since our parents would certainly soon ask us when and where we might perform. We had formed and broken up bands several times before, in several different garages and basements, but now it was pretty much just me with my guitar, and Kyle with his bass and sometimes keyboard. Plus, he can deny it all he wants, but the guy can sing; I mean sing. If I had to pick a great singer out of any of us, I'd honestly say Kenny—who once took opera lessons or something—but Kyle is a very close second. I'm too critical of my own voice, even though Kyle insists I'm good, and I just plain hate giving Cartman the benefit of the doubt as far as talent goes, even though he can at least stay on pitch.
Anyway, this isn't about bands, or even the lack thereof. It's about the League.
I enjoy being in the League. I really do. I think that the work we do is important and inspiring, and I even got caught up in the ulterior motives Kenny uses Headquarters for: researching an ancient text called the Necronomicon. I had yet to fully understand his obsession with that book, but I helped him out nonetheless. Mostly, I've always just liked to escape reality for a little while. Reality is full of standards and expectations. In the League, we only expect one another to respect all opinions (a problem which sometimes arises with Cartman), and, most importantly, to have each other's backs when we're out on the job.
The particular talents I bring to the League are essential, but I never get egotistic about it. Again, I just like to help. And so, with that as my goal in mind, I changed clothes for the evening, swapping out my jeans for a darker pair, my brown shirt for a white one, and my sneakers for black and red work boots. Checking to make sure everything was in place, I strapped on my defining toolbelt. I could spin and work a Philip's head now the way I've seen some guys work a butterfly knife; it's convenient that everything on that belt that can help out in a normal situation can also be used as cunning weapons, and I know the secret use of all of them.
After securing onto my back the latest addition to my arsenal, a sledgehammer I'd acquired one day while Clyde and I were scouring the town dump for ideas (and just for the hell of it), I reached back into my bag for the sculpting wax I always had for League purposes, and ran in through my hair. Spiking it now was a little hard, since Wendy had just recently cut it for me, despite my usual protests, but I reached the desired effect quickly, wiped my hands dry quickly on my jeans, then pulled on my black and red work gloves, and drew out my yellow safety goggles. Remembering my most recent detail, I added as well a bit of black charcoal eyeliner around my eyes before sliding on the goggles. At the highest risk of being unveiled, I had come up with the eyeliner idea a few years back, and it proved thus far to work as intended.
At ten to eight, I made my way back to the meeting room, which was already occupied by Iron Maiden, Mosquito, and the youngest, Red Serge. Red Serge—Ike by day—was exactly what his name implied: ridiculously Canadian. His uniform consisted of a literal red serge, the same uniform worn by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police (the Coon originally called Red Serge 'the Mountie,' but Ike preferred the other), down to the wide-brimmed cap; to the standard uniform, he added a black half-mask to cover his eyes. His weapon of choice was a thin sword, much like a fencing foil, and when he made his way into a fight, his small size worked to his advantage, as did an exceptional knack for acrobatics, which were all more or less self-taught.
TupperWear entered from another side of the room right around the same time I did, and the two of us ambled in to join a discussion already underway between the Coon and Human Kite. "Check it out," the latter beamed, grinning from ear to ear as he held up a spool of what looked like simple white twine. "I figured this out last week: it's twice emulsified, and now it's stronger than chain link!"
"Oh, very impressive, Human Kite," the Coon mumbled, feigning interest.
"Better than any ideas you've come up with lately, Rodent," he sneered back.
"That's Coon!"
"I dunno," I added in. "Rodent seems to suit you just fine."
"Aye!"
"Gentlemen!" a commanding voice buzzed from the back of the room, causing us all to turn. "The time is now eight o'clock, and the meeting is in session."
I had to give Clyde credit: he was a fantastic leader. Sophomore class president, football team co-captain last season—despite his being only a second year student—and acting head of the now-seven-years-running Coon League. Back in sixth grade, when we had considered abandoning the League due to each of us thinking the rest had lost interest, Clyde had been the first to have an active voice in saying that he wanted to continue. He'd even switched his costume around a little at that time, replacing an old piece for a Mardi Gras-style mask with a red and brown design and a long, pointed 'mosquito' nose, both for practical, identity-shielding purposes and as a reminder that this whole thing took off due to a crisis down in New Orleans. His voice, as Mosquito, was cleverly disguised by a constantly pinched nose, too, giving him a more high-pitched, nasal sound than usual. The rest of us generally opted to lower our tones to disguise our voices, Mysterion and the Coon opting for a full, almost whispered, growl. Red Serge was the only other one to alter his voice higher.
We took our places around a rectangular table. We'd thought about having a round one in the past, but we'd started out with a rectangular one, and kept that as the standard. Based on who needed the floor, we'd alternate the head seats on either side, and each had a permanent place on the longer ends. There were two vacant seats on each side as well, on the off-chance we'd add in a new member. Or on the off-chance we'd get another visit from Mint-Berry Crunch. Mint-Berry Crunch, alter ego of our former classmate Bradley Biggle, was rarely heard from nowadays. He'd stop in occasionally, but for the most part spent his time on—this is going to sound ridiculous—his home planet, piecing together the mysteries of his past, and honing the power of mint and berries. I had no idea mint and berries had power, but the guy was an alien. So whatever. Again: very little seems 'strange' to me anymore, after having grown up in this town.
The meeting table was surrounded on all sides by computer and television screens, as well as two whiteboards, a corkboard with clippings of leads for our latest investigations, and file cabinets. It was here that we kept up with the news, kept tabs on local crimes and national crises, and would do occasional research into Kenny's obsession with the Necronomicon and the local Cult of Cthulhu. One of the whiteboards was completely full of scribblings, mostly in Kenny's writing, on Cult meeting times, passages from the ancient book we'd managed to scrounge up, and a timeline of Cult activity since Stuart and Carol McCormick had first visited a meeting sixteen years ago, especially detailed after the Gulf crisis. We all knew Kenny had some kind of tie to Cthulhu, but for the life of me, I could never remember everything we'd learned. It usually just seemed like an obsession.
Just as I was looking over that whiteboard to see if he'd added anything new, Mysterion, generally the last to join the meetings, marched in and took his place at the table. Mosquito currently held the floor, and called for us to be seated. "Red Serge, how are we for attendance?" he asked our youngest member, whose seat was between Iron Maiden and the Coon, on the side of the table across from where Kite, TupperWear and I sat. Mysterion's place was directly next to the Coon's, and across from Mosquito's normal one, on Kite's left. I couldn't help but notice that he looked more driven than usual that evening. And why wouldn't he? He always got that way when it seemed like we'd be wrapping something up soon.
"The numbers don't add up," said Red Serge as he finished his tally. In front of him was a clipboard with a roster, which he switched out every Wednesday and replaced afresh, based on activity. There were some nights that not all of us could make, but either Red Serge or Iron Maiden was always around to keep numbers in check. "We're still missing—"
"No," Mysterion corrected, looking up, "he's here."
We all turned our attention to the meeting room door, which opened and closed heavily as our irregular member made himself known. It wasn't every week we teamed up with the usually solitary Professor Chaos, but this week was quite the exception. Mosquito motioned for Chaos to take the seat at the other head of the table, but the latter preferred to stand. If ever the opportunity arose for him to have everything in the palms of his hands, Chaos would take it.
"Mosquito," said Mysterion, standing as well, "if I could..?"
"All yours," he nodded, taking his regular seat at the table and giving Mysterion the head. I was on the edge of my seat. Mysterion and Chaos were, arguably, the two strongest forces in the room, and history told us that collaboration between them was not an easy or desired thing. Whenever Chaos had attended meetings in the past, it had usually been as a way to escape blackmail, which was easy enough for us to come by, but tonight, Kenny had even confided in me at school earlier, had been entirely Chaos's idea.
"Right," Mysterion growled, his eyes not leaving Chaos's for a second. "Now would you mind telling us how and why you came by this?"
From his cape, Mysterion pulled a manilla envelope, which he passed around starting with Mosquito. When they got to me, I paused, stunned. Craig? Craig Tucker was involved in the drug ring?
"It started when my assistant and I," Chaos began, "were making our way to the school to make use of its chemistry lab." Aha. A few months ago, we'd stopped Chaos from breaking into the school for that very purpose. His plan that time had had something to do with erosion, though the full memory of that scuffle was hazy—I remembered Kenny disappearing at some point when we finally caught Chaos, and days later his whole plan was abandoned, so none of us had really thought about it since. "Our break-in was interrupted by Craig and his little drug deal, but I happened to notice that one of his clients arrived wearing a robe." Here, he pointed with a flourish at the Cult board. "A robe belonging to a member of the very cult that your League is devoted to studying."
"What is it you want from us, Chaos?" Mysterion demanded.
"A seat at your meetings for no less than five weeks."
"Consecutively?" I wondered, passing the photos across the table.
"No," Professor Chaos grinned. "Any five meetings I want."
"A tip-off isn't worth that much!" TupperWear argued. "No deal."
"This is more than a tip-off, you fool!" Chaos snapped. I couldn't help it: I still could barely believe that he and the overly-friendly Marjorine were the same person. "I happen to know that Craig has a deal set up for tonight in his usual spot. Go ahead, bring him down tonight, and you'll see. You can bring down the drug ring as fast and easily as you'd like, but without me, you're not going to get any closer to that Cult than you are right now!"
"What do they have to do with something as petty as pot and heroin?" Mysterion demanded.
"I have reason to believe something other than substances are being passed through hands at these transactions," said Chaos, his eyes, sapphire and maliciously gleaming under a thick coat of black, shadowy makeup, dead set on Mysterion's. "Whether or not Craig has a hand in the Cult, I have yet to discover, but I am willing to work with you on this. Provided that I have access to no less than five meetings in addition to this one."
"What do you stand to gain?" Mysterion barked.
"More information on what your League is up to," Chaos answered. "That's all."
"I don't buy it," the Coon said, narrowing his eyes, absconded by a fur mask, at Professor Chaos.
"Timmy," Iron Maiden concurred.
Mysterion slammed a fist down on the table, causing us all to turn and give him our full attention. He glanced over at his whiteboard, then closed his eyes and sighed before returning his attention to our long-standing nemesis. "Five," he agreed, "so long as I or another member of this League chooses three."
"The bargains can keep adding up—" Chaos began.
"We choose three!" Mysterion shouted. "That's my only offer! Take it, Chaos, and take us to the scene of this transaction! I'm not going to talk this over any longer, I have much better things to do!"
"Very well," Chaos gave in. "Five meetings, three chosen by you. To be filled within this year."
"Deal. The end. Done."
"Wait, Mysterion—" Human Kite tried to reason.
"Nobody argue this!" Mysterion interrupted. And from there, we didn't. None of us ever opposed Mysterion. When it came down to the Cult, we really couldn't deny him anything. His obsession with that did seem unhealthy, and I worried about him from time to time, but I also had a gut feeling that his obsession was not without reason. A gut feeling that we'd all soon be drawn further into the obsession ourselves, and we wouldn't be sorry that we let him get his way with investigating the Cult all this time. "We're done here," said Mysterion. "We're moving out. Chaos, lead us to Craig. Coon, TupperWear, I'm charging you with keeping this guy under control."
The two accepted their assignment, and thus the evening began. In the end, it was destined to take a turn, but all we knew at the moment was that we were heading much deeper into the mission than we ever thought we'd go.
– – –
We divided into three field teams: first wave was me, Human Kite, and Mosquito; TupperWear and Coon were with Professor Chaos on standby; Mysterion, as usual, was alone. We all respected his need for solitude, and general preference for working alone, even if it did make us a little nervous sometimes. He never wandered off too far, though, and always had a good sense of where the rest of us were.
The three of us on first wave went ahead toward the high school, while standby hung back. Mysterion was undoubtedly around, and hopefully the other two were keeping a good eye on Chaos. The Coon usually got to him before anything too strange could happen. Chaos was known for, well… chaotic things, and would sometimes help us out only to lead us into traps or start up diversions. I knew that, beneath it all, it was just Butters wanting attention… Chaos just went about it in a more Machiavellian way that Marjorine did.
"You think Chaos was right?" Human Kite asked out of nowhere.
"Huh?" I wondered.
"I mean, what if he's leading us on? He's done it before."
"I trust Mysterion's judgment enough to believe he's telling us the right thing," said Mosquito. "I'm skeptical as to what Chaos wants, though."
"Same here," I admitted. "I mean, have you guys noticed that Butters has been really… kinda out of it lately?"
"Yeah," Kite nodded, solemnly. "Considering how often Marjorine's been showing up, plus as Chaos he's been…"
"Abnormally idle," Mosquito offered.
"Exactly."
"Guys, I'm worried about Butters," I confessed. "I mean, the kid's had it bad his whole life, but d'you ever think he might really just be kinda insane?"
"Unstable, maybe," my best friend suggested. "But crazy? No."
"How can you be so—"
Mosquito interrupted me by raising a hand. The three of us stopped short, and fixed our eyes on the same spot. Standing beside the dumpster just under the window that looked into the first-floor chemistry lab stood, just as Chaos had tipped off, Craig. This was the senior parking lot, tucked away behind the school, and in enough of a convenient location to allow privileged seniors easy access to the back door. Apparently, it served plenty of other purposes, too.
Our dark-haired, dark-expressioned classmate was leaning back against the brick structure, counting out bills in his black-gloved hands. Oddly enough, I'd never thought that Craig would choose to run with such a seedy crowd. He never showed any signs of use. Then again, if anyone could hide it, he could. He was impossible to read as it was. The question was now whether he was waiting to buy, or had just made a transaction.
"Shit," Clyde muttered, accidentally dropping character for a second. "It really is Craig." A general naysayer but all around average person and student, Craig had been good friends with Clyde for a while, though Craig had seemed to become more and more of a loner since entering high school. His ways were rather mysterious, and I never did know what that guy did after school—he had no club activities, nor was he involved with any sports or the arts. Well. I guess setting up drug deals was one way to waste extra time.
"I know you're there," Craig said. The three of us held our breath, making no movement. It was possible he didn't mean us. "You've been riding my ass way too long, and it's pissing me off. I've got another client coming, so get the hell outta here." Okay, he most likely did mean us.
Just then, four silhouettes appeared, coming round the other side of the building. Kite, Mosquito and I were positioned in the shadows off a sports equipment shed, which stood a few good yards away from Craig. "You guys catch that?" I heard Mysterion hiss into the communication wire in my right ear.
"What, that he's got a transaction coming up?" I wondered.
"Not just that. We're not alone."
"Yeah, his clients," said Human Kite.
"Someone else, too."
"Someone else?" I repeated. "Who the hell else is there?"
It clicked for all of us at once: "The Cult?"
Mosquito shushed us and directed our attention back over at Craig, who slipped little bags of white powder into the hands of one of the silhouettes, who in turn handed Craig a generous roll of bills. "On three," he said. Kite and I nodded. "One… two…"
"I warned you, you skeaze!" someone called out.
"Fuckin' a," Craig muttered, quickly pocketing the wad of cash.
"Dammit, Tucker, you said you were alone!" one of the silhouettes yapped.
"I thought I was," said Craig blankly. "You got your stuff, get outta here. This bitch is—"
"Who are you calling a bitch?" Just then, someone leapt down from the fire escape landing above the chem lab, made a perfect three point landing in front of Craig, stood, backfisted him, then made for one of the silhouettes.
"Mysterion! B Team!" I called into the wire.
"Way ahead of you," said Mysterion.
"Is it that little Dissaray asshole?" the Coon wondered.
"No!" said Human Kite. "It's…"
"Who the hell is that?" I wondered.
We moved closer, both to gain ground and to get a better idea of who and what we were up against. Obviously, this newcomer was anti-Craig, but whether or not they were on our side was questionable. "Coon League!" Mosquito announced, taking the lead as the three of us stepped out of the shadows and directly into what was going to become the brawl. He held forward his stun gun, showing he meant business. He usually does. "We'll take it from here."
"No way," said the newcomer, back to us, "this is my bust."
"I don't think so." That was Mysterion, who appeared silently from where the four buyers had come.
"Craig," another of the buyers warned, "if you set this up—"
"Hell, no," said Craig. "Look, you got your shit, leave. I'm not a part of this stupid little club, okay? They're all a bunch of pains in my ass." He lifted his head and glared over at the one most hell-bent on stopping him. "You hear me, Marpesia?"
"Marpesia?" Mysterion echoed.
"That's right," said the newcomer. I took that time to analyze what I could of Marpesia.
First off, no getting around it, Marpesia was a girl. She looked pretty tall, but, then again, she had a good couple inches in her heeled combat boots. The boots, black with a serpentine pattern sprayed on in silver, laced up to just below her knees. She then wore black spandex under a metal-plated, heavy black pleated skirt. A utility belt was strapped around her waist, over what must have been a bulletproof vest which, like her boots, was black and sprayed silver in a pattern. She wore shoulderpads, forearm gauntlets, and gloves with the same design. Her hair was black, streaked silver, and tied into a braid that reached halfway down her back. She wore a high black collar, and her head was completely covered by a Greek-style helmet. I hadn't gotten a look at whatever I could of her face yet, but her voice, low in pitch, echoed inside the helmet, giving her, really, that Greek god-like feel. Just one thing…
…Who the hell was she? And how long had she been active?
Apparently Craig knew about her, where were we all that time?
"Stand back, boys," Marpesia said, cracking her knuckles, "and let me handle this."
Without so much as a go-ahead nod from one of us, Marpesia turned and swiftly dealt a high kick to one of Craig's clients. Her boot hit him square in the face; the man choked and hit the ground hard on his back. I gulped back a "Holy shit!" and glanced over at Mysterion, who was keeping a close eye on Marpesia's form. And why not? The girl could fight. As she effortlessly brought down man after man, I found myself less concerned with who she was, and more on what her motives were. I was so focused, in fact, that it took me a few seconds before I heard the Coon spitting, "Hey!" into the wire. "Toolshed, you lazy asshole, back us up. Craig made a break for it!"
"Shit!" I actually did yelp this time. I glanced around and noticed that Mosquito and Human Kite had already answered the call. "Mysterion?"
"I've got this," my cloaked ally assured me. "Go do what you need to."
"I'm on it," I said into the wire. "Where are you?"
"Boundary gate," said the Coon. "Hurry up!"
The boundary gate was a ten-foot-high chickenwire fence that stretched the full length of the football field, and a little beyond, back toward the baseball diamond, where it had a small door cut in just before it became the padded, solid right field wall of the diamond. Beyond the confines of the high school grounds, open fields (old cow pastures, I think) stretched for a while before turning into tilled farmlands at the foot of one of our town's mountain boundaries. It was both a brilliant and stupid move on Craig's part, if he was aiming for that door: the snow was sure to slow him down, but if he made it out, we'd lose track of him in seconds. It was too risky to carry the fight out into farm country, and even the averagely studious Craig was smart enough to know that. Of course, Craig was apparently full of surprises—I had no idea he was streetwise enough to be involved with South Park's less-than-finest.
I arrived at the gate to find Chaos tied there (probably with a length of Kite's emulsified string) with his hands behind his back. Mosquito had his stun gun trained on Chaos while TupperWear and the Coon blocked the gate door. Human Kite was in position on top of the gate, one hand holding him steady for balance, the other on one handle of his hang-glider, so that he could make a move at any time.
I figured out right away why they needed me: after Mysterion, I was the fastest. Even with a sledgehammer strapped to my back. (Believe me, that shit's light after running laps in football gear for several consecutive seasons.) Coon and TupperWear were great for guarding, but—due to the Coon's bulk and TupperWear's armor, they were the two slowest in a fight. And Craig was thin, quick, and pissed off, which was giving them a hard time. So, using my agility to its fullest advantage, I rushed up behind Craig and dealt a blow to the head.
My boots had crunched into the snow, however, so the bastard heard me coming. He dodged and ducked, then quickly spun round and attempted a low kick. Before I could be tripped, I grabbed off my sledgehammer and, using the mallet as a weighted base, I put the long wooden handle to use as a staff, propelled myself off the ground and got in my own kick, right to Craig's sternum. He took the full hit and flew backwards, right into TupperWear, who hit him with a double-fisted crush from overhead.
Craig crumpled down into the snow at TupperWear's feet, but remained conscious. Then, in a feat I had never thought to give anyone outside the League credit to (especially someone as laid back as Craig), he arched his back, propped himself up into a handstand, locked his legs around TupperWear's neck, and flipped him over and smack into the Coon. "Dammit!" Mosquito shouted. "Kite, stay on Chaos! Toolshed, take my right!"
But even he and I weren't able to stop Craig from breaking through out the other end of the fence. It was the second between Kite leaping down to relieve Mosquito and me ditching the sledgehammer that Craig chose to make his getaway. Had to hand it to the guy for being crafty, I guess. Of course, he rose on all of our 'suspicious people' lists that night.
"Fuck!" Human Kite spat, punching the wire fence behind Professor Chaos. "I coulda caught him if—"
"Stop," I said, picking my sledgehammer back up in defeat. I was always stopping Kyle from overthinking and overanalyzing. Sometimes, I'd let my closest friend rant at me till he ran out of words, but being on the job was not the time for that. As Coon and TupperWear helped each other up, I added, with some aggravation, "None of us were expecting that from Craig."
"No shit," said the Coon, coughing to get his breath back after the shock of being bludgeoned by TupperWear's entire armored body. "Chaos, the fuck? Did you know about that?"
"I'm as stunned as you are," said Professor Chaos, Butters' normal, nervous tone ringing through just enough to let us know he was serious.
"How about that Marpesia girl?" Human Kite asked. "Do you have any affiliation with her?"
"Affiliation? Who?"
"Marpesia!"
"I don't know her!"
"Bullshit, I don't buy it!" Human Kite slammed Professor Chaos back into the fence. This was pretty standard for him. When pissed, when provoked, Kyle got really fucking angry. "Tell me the truth! I don't want everything to stack up against us tonight!"
"Dude, chill," I tried.
"NO!" Kite barked. "Didn't you even say—"
"Look, I don't know who you're talking about!" Chaos tried again, sounding more and more like Butters every second.
"Marpesia, the girl with the helmet!"
"Jesus, I didn't even know there was a girl here!" Butters was out in full, and definitely confused.
"OKAY!" I snapped, cutting in the middle of everything. "Let's all calm the fuck down. We had a loss tonight. It happens. We can catch Craig again. I say we just go back, tell Mysterion what happened, and get whatever facts we can from this Marpesia chick, okay? Okay."
Human Kite shoved Chaos against the wire gate one last time, then led the way, stomping, back toward the parking lot. He hated losing. He was such a go-getter, being set back was never something that settled well with him. It didn't settle well with any of us, no, but he really shifted through mood swings. The Coon took charge of wrangling Professor Chaos once Kite had stormed off, and the rest of us followed. I took up the rear, glancing back over my shoulder, just in case Craig would come into view again. Of course, he didn't. We'd catch him, though. I was confident that we would.
We returned to the parking lot just in time to see a slew of cop cars heading away, sirens blaring. Craig's buyers were gone—with the police, undoubtedly—and Mysterion and Marpesia were locked in a staredown, neither one seeming to want to move. "Hey," I finally called over. "Barbrady was already here?" Officer Barbrady, one of the heads of the South Park police, had been a town presence for ages. My guess is that the guy started going senile at age thirty. He was a little inept, but our work basically helped him keep his job. We'd catch people for the cops, they'd come in, they'd sometimes take all the credit, but for the most part, we'd have our fair share of praise from the town paper, and sometimes even the evening news.
"Yeah," Mysterion said as we approached, not moving. "Where's Craig?"
"He, uh, kinda—"
"He kinda what?" Mysterion demanded, glowering over at me.
"He was kinda more to handle than we expected," TupperWear offered.
"More to handle?" Mysterion repeated. "More to handle? There were five of you, and you couldn't stop that one fucking guy?"
"We fucked up this time, okay?" I said. "It happens. Question is, what do we do about her?" I gestured over toward Marpesia. The girl was showing an incredible display of self-control. To be honest, it made her pretty attractive, even though I couldn't even see her face. Her stance was attractive, anyway. Appealing. Her helmet, I now noticed, was not the only thing shielding her face. The helmet armored most of her head, even sporting a nose plate, but she also wore a black half-mask underneath, completely concealing her eyes from recognition.
"If it isn't too much to ask," said Marpesia, "I'd like to join you."
"That's asking a lot!" shouted Mysterion. "Especially after you distracted us tonight! You can't deny that this was all one big distraction! Give me one good reason why we'd even consider teaming up with you!"
"Look, I apologize for the inconvenience tonight, but I really do want to help!" Marpesia insisted.
"Oh, no," said the Coon. "No, no, no, no. No girls. Girls can't be superheroes."
"What about Wonder Woman?" Marpesia shot at him. "Black Cat? Supergirl?"
"None of them have good movies!" the Coon insisted, snapping right into 'asshole Cartman mode.' Check that. Just 'Cartman mode.' "You can't be a superhero without a good summer movie!"
"SHUT UP!" Mysterion hollered at him. "Listen, I'm pissed off that we didn't get any further information on the Cult tonight. Marpesia, if you can guarantee us a lead, I'd consider talking to you, but—"
"I've been trailing Craig for a while," Marpesia told him, holding her ground. She really was holding her own, and I began to respect her for that. Knowing that she was not affiliated with Professor Chaos was enough of a relief, but knowing that she really could be a potential ally was even better. "I've seen robed men come and go during his drug deals. I haven't caught any, but I've followed them. I know the kinds of people you're looking for. I've admired your work for a long time, and I want this to be my time to come forward and say that I want to help you. I do. Believe me."
Mysterion was silent. The rest of us were at a loss. The Cult, again, was primarily Mysterion's thing. This, we all silently but unanimously agreed, was his call. However he wanted to deal with the Marpesia situation, we'd let him. Aside, maybe, from the bigot in the group, but he could always be dealt with.
"So," Mysterion transitioned after a few moments of contemplation, eyes again glued to the new presence, "how long have you been active?"
"Only about three months now," she answered. "Since this whole fiasco started. I thought about alerting you, but—"
"Why didn't you?"
Marpesia paused, tapped her foot in thought, then asked, "Can we talk about this somewhere else? I shouldn't reveal everything here."
"Why?"
"Possible wandering ears."
Mysterion growled to himself, then glanced around at each of us for second opinions. Well, I figured, if it was answers we were after… here was someone who might have them. "I say we chance it," I said.
"I'm with Toolshed," Kite nodded his own approval.
"Guys, she's a chick!"
"Shut up, Coon!" Mysterion snarled. "Jesus, God, just shut up! I'm so close to kicking the shit out of you right now. Okay! She comes with us! Kite, blindfold her."
"How do I blindfold someone wearing a helmet?"
"I don't—ugh. Let's just go."
"My eyes are closed," Marpesia assured us. She even went so far as to tuck her hands behind her back, to let Mosquito cuff her if he wanted. The fact that she was dealing with everything so willingly, that she was being so compliant, helped me trust her. I didn't know how the others felt, but nobody else fought her strange loyalty. It was seeming more and more likely that she was someone we knew. The question then was… did she 'know' us..? "Lead on."
So, none of us speaking the whole time, we made our way back to the base. The air around all of us was heavy: defeat from the bust blended with mixed feelings over the possibility of adding a new member to the League. I had a feeling that she could be an asset, but I also got the sense that she might disrupt things. That we'd have to keep an eye on her, especially now that we'd promised Professor Chaos attendance at five additional meetings as well.
Once we were back around the table at HQ, Mosquito took the time to explain to Iron Maiden and Red Serge the events of the evening, primarily focusing on Marpesia's interference, and that the mission more or less failed. "I wouldn't say 'failed," Marpesia interrupted. Human Kite sat her down in the far head chair, while Mysterion took the other.
"What do you mean by that?" Mysterion demanded, still in a mood.
"I'm saying we can work together, if you'll let me…"
"That does it!" Mysterion shouted. "Who are you? Who are you working for?"
"I'm only doing this for myself, for now," said Marpesia. "It started out as a story for the school paper. I am a reporter, you know."
"And a high schooler…" I realized.
Marpesia smirked over at me. "That much should've been obvious by now, Toolshed."
"Okay," said Mysterion. "You know us. Now—"
Almost regally, Marpesia took in a deep breath. She set her hands on either side of her helmet, jostled it a bit, then lifted it off of her head and set it down on the table in front of her. She then removed her half-mask and said, in her normal, dulcet voice, "Listen up, guys, I really do admire you. If you let me work with you, I promise, this Craig fiasco will be over before you know it. I won't even publish the story. I just like the work you do." She lifted her head. "I swear. What you're doing is fantastic. It's what this town needs. I'm—"
I couldn't stop myself. My heart thudded, and my world turned completely upside down. This… kinda changed everything. Unable to stay silent, I came right out and blurt, "…WENDY?"
It was true.
The girl who had intervened that night was none other than my girlfriend.
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Authors' Note:
-Disclaimer: South Park and all related characters belong to Matt Stone and Trey Parker.-
CLIFFHANGER! Dun, dun, dunnnn... :3
Hope you're enjoying our little take on the story... the intro chapters are mostly, well... introductory, but we're delving further into the meat of the story, now, as it were...
Random note: writing Ike and Craig is fun~~
See you next Wednesday! Please do let us know what you think..! ^^ We'd love to hear your feedback.
~Jizena and Rosie Denn
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