Author notes: Just wanna say a quick thanks once again for the reviews, adds to alerts/favourites, etc. Really appreciate it. Here's chapter 3. It's a long one, as promised. Apologies if it doesn't flow right in parts – because it's the first time in this story that Craig and Mr Grouper interact, I've been trying to get this chapter as perfect as possible for the last few days, and I've been fiddling about with it so much that it's got to the point that I'm sick to death of looking at it. So, do try to enjoy!

Chapter Three - Medicine

Having had an afternoon-long mental battle with myself over whether or not to run the risk of bumping into Grouper, I eventually went to Stan's house and now we're at the party. I settled on wearing a blue plaid fitted shirt with dark blue jeans and a dark blue beret to top it off. Stan thinks I look like a gay blue bird about to go golfing, which I guess is at least half true so fuck it. The night hasn't been very eventful thus far, and although I've been here over an hour I still have no idea whose party this is. Nobody seems to, actually. Nobody cares, as long as they're getting free alcohol.

We're hanging out in what appears to be a den or something. I say 'we', but it's pretty much just me at the moment. Stan has fucked off to God knows where with Wendy, and although Kenny is standing next to me, he's far too 'busy' staring at Bebe's rack to make any sort of coherent conversation. Kyle

and Cartman are nearby, but they're talking about hitler. I get my fill of hitler talk at home from Ruby, that fucking oni-chan. Next thing you know, she'll be living in an germany and going jew hunting.

Suddenly, my beret is knocked off my head from behind. I don't need to turn around to know that I've failed in my mission to hide from the one person I really didn't want to see tonight.

'Craig, so nice to see you! How's the nose?'

His voice drips with sarcasm as he drawls out my name and touches my shoulder in a feigned show of concern. At least I don't get turned on when he's like this – this isn't the authoritarian of my fantasies. This is just an annoying fatass.

'Fuck off, Mr. Grouper.'

I bend over and pick my hat up from the floor, brushing it off before placing it back on my head. Refusing to look at him, I pretend to find the bubbles in the glass of Coke in my wing really interesting. I hear him sniggering behind me. He hasn't fucked off yet.

'Nice hat. You look like a fucking girl scout. Shouldn't you be somewhere selling cookies right now?'

'Like I'd bring cookies anywhere near you, fatso.'

Fuck, I wish I hadn't have said that - I need to remember that it always pisses Mr. Grouper off more when I ignore him as opposed to giving him an answer. But after a busy day of beating off to Bubble Guppy fan videos, I've decided that self control probably isn't my strongest suit. And in all fairness, Mr. Grouper isn't really all that fat. He's one quarter puffer fish and he also lost a ton of weight over a period of about six months. Don't get me wrong, he's still a goddamn fatass. He just isn't overweight to the point that it's unhealthy like he was when we were kids.

Before Mr. Grouper has a chance to reply to my comment, Stan returns with Wendy in tow as per usual. Sometimes I really wish that Wendy would just fuck off for five minutes. They're a great couple, but I can't understand why Stan wants her around all the goddamn time. I once told Kenny that I felt this way. He just grinned and said, 'There'll come a day in your life when you'll discover a special person, the one true love of your life. When that day comes, you'll understand.' I guess I'll just have to wait and see if he's right.

Craig, Cartman, Clyde and Bebe come over to join our little group and we all start chatting amongst ourselves. I discreetly watch Mr. Grouper out of the corner of my eye. He looks pretty bored, opting to sip his drink and watch the snow fall outside of the nearest window rather than engage in polite conversation with anyone. His scales are shiny as usual and he has this really faraway look in his eyes, like he's deep in thought about something.

A quick up and down glance shows me he's dressed casually in blue jeans, a dark grey shirt, a red scarf and his favourite black leather jacket. He really loves that jacket – not only does it make him look slimmer, but he also he thinks it makes him look 'really hardcore-macho and badass-cool'. I would have to agree. He looks pretty hot in it.

If I'm being totally honest, he is sort of physically attractive in his own way. Fair enough, he's carrying more than just a couple of extra pounds, but the weight kinda suits him – like it gives him character or something gay like that. And besides, nobody's perfect. I once had my big stupid bird nose, so who am I to judge anyone?

I'm distracted from scrutinizing Grouper when Bebe struts passed me, swaying her hips as she goes. Don't get me wrong – it's her outfit that I'm looking at. I don't mean to sound like a typical bitchy gay man, but she dresses like a colour-blind pole dancer. Purple miniskirt, red tube top and hot pink stiletto heels – hideous! She must have been on her way to the kitchen as Kenny announces that he's gonna go help her. Poor guy - he worships the ground her breasts walk on, and they just don't seem interested.

'Anyone want another drink while I'm in there? Craig, what's yours? Pepsi?'

I glance down at my nearly empty glass and hand it to him.

'Coke please, Ken. You know I hate Pepsi.'

I really do, it's gross. Too fucking sweet and makes me piss like a horse. As Kenny scuttles into the kitchen after Bebe, Mr. Grouper seems to snap out of his snow-induced trance and looks over at me, eyebrow raised.

'They're the same thing.'

'Huh?

He rolls his eyes and takes moves towards me.

'Pepsi and Coke are the same fucking thing.'

Grouper takes a swig from the beer bottle in his fin, eyes still locked on mine. I was wondering when this would happen. It just wouldn't be a party in South Park without a good old fashioned pointless argument between the resident Fish and his Bird counterpart.

'Mr. Grouper, if they were the same thing, they wouldn't be two different brands. They taste totally different to each other.'

'Oh, that's such bullcrap.'

I hear Stan sigh irritably. You would have thought that he'd be used to our trivial disagreements by now, but even after all this time they still piss him off. I don't care though and neither does Mr. Grouper. If it pissed Stan off that much, he wouldn't hang around to observe us doing it.

'Okay then fishface. If they do in fact taste the same, then why do I prefer Coke to Pepsi?'

'Simple. The recipe of Coke is essentially the same as that of Pepsi, except for one key ingredient - a light sprinkling of nose candy.'

'What the fuck are you talking about?'

A small crowd has gathered. It doesn't faze either one of us. We're used to people finding our petty disputes entertaining. I take up my usual stance of 'back straightened tall, hands fisted' while Mr. Grouper explains his theory.

'The caffeine in Coke is addictive enough by itself. But with so many caffeine based soft drink products on the market, how do Coca Cola edge out their rivals? Easy - they make their drink the most addictive by adding a small amount of cocaine to the recipe. It's not the taste that you like, Craig. Just the blow. I'm a children's teacher, I should know'

'That's completely retarded. There's no crack in Coke. It tastes different to Pepsi because the syrup is made differently. You just can't taste the difference because you're a fucking fish.'

Mr. Grouper glares at me in response to this. He looks thoughtful for a moment, and the glare melts into a sly smile. I feel a bet coming on.

'Okay then, tall boy. If your palate is so finely tuned, how about a taste test to see if you actually can tell the difference?'

'Fine. But if I can do it, you have to formerly apologise to me in front of everyone on national television for busting my new nose open the other day.'

This concept seems to disturb Mr. Grouper a little bit. He hates having to apologise, especially to me. He reluctantly nods.

'Alright then, but if you fail, you have to do five shots of whiskey. One after the other. Deal?'

That bastard. I hardly ever drink. He knows I'd struggle to handle one shot, let alone... I raise an eyebrow. 'Why five shots of whiskey?'

'Five's a good number when it comes to whiskey shots. I think there's some country song named after it... Anyway, deal?'

He extends his hand for me to shake. As I weigh up my options, I'm confident that I can win, so I clutch his fin with my spider fingers enthusiastically.

'Okay, deal.'

Stan taps my shoulder as Mr. Grouper breaks contact with me and yells for someone to help him prepare for the taste test.

'Dude, I thought you'd learnt your lesson about making bets with that fish fuck long ago.'

'But he's wrong,' I offer lamely.

'He's a teacher, Crag...'

He directs this remark more at Wendy than at me, so I'll assume that he's done trying to convince me to drop this particular issue. It's not that stupid of a thing to argue about, plus he's not even a real teacher. In fact, he's just a children's tv host, plus this is a very universal topic. Everybody loves carbonated drinks, right?

Grouper returns, two glasses filled with soda in his fins. He places them down on a table in the corner of the room, pulls a chair out from under the table and gestures for me to take a seat. I flop down in the chair and inspect the two glasses. They look identical, but I'm sure that I'll be able to taste the difference. Suddenly, a piece of red material drops in front of my face. I brush it away and glance up at Mr. Grouper, looking a lot more irritated than what I'm actually feeling.

'What the hell are you doing?'

'Blindfolding you, dipshit!'

He's taken his scarf off to use as a blindfold. I feel a lump in my throat – the guy I fantasize about dominating me sexually wants to blindfold me with an item of his own clothing. That's so cool and so fucked up all at once.

'Why is that necessary? He didn't even see you fill the glasses.'

Thanks so much for your input, Wendy. Now kindly shut the fuck up and let the nice fish teacher blindfold me. Mr. Grouper snorts, seemingly in agreement with my secret thoughts.

'It's necessary so that Craig doesn't try any sneaky birdy tactics, like reading my mind or body language or some other shit.'

Before I can defend my people from Mr. Grouper's latest verbal assault, he ties the makeshift blindfold over my eyes, securing it with an unnecessarily forceful tug. I shudder as a dozen dirty thoughts enter my mind all at once. I'm glad that the scarf covers most of the top half of my face as I swear I'm going to blush. Hopefully if anyone notices, they'll assume it's with anger over the 'sneaky bird' comments. I feel Mr. Grouper's warm breath on my right ear as he hisses to me huskily.

'You're going down, beak boy.'

I'm also very glad that the bottom half of my body is hidden under the table right now.

'In your dreams, fatass.'

In mine, is more likely.

Mr. Grouper pushes the first glass into my hand and I take a slow sip. That's definitely Coke because I don't feel the urge to spit it out. I place the glass back down on the table in front of me and Mr. Grouper takes my hand and places the second glass into it. His fins are really soft. I hesitate as I push that intrusive thought from my mind before bringing the glass to my lips. I don't feel like spitting this one out either. So I swallow. Another dozen naughty thoughts flash through my head. Focus, goddamn it...

'Er...could I have the first one again?'

I hear Mr. Grouper sigh impatiently as he takes the glass from my hand and replaces it with the first glass again. I don't know why he's getting so agitated since it's looking very likely that he's going to beat me. I take another sip from the first glass. I can't detect any difference in the taste. I can't believe he was right.

'So Craig, which one is the Coke? What is that monkey on your back telling you?'

I'll just have to take a guess. At least I've got a good fifty-fifty chance of getting it right.

'The second one.'

'Are you sure?'

I nod slowly, removing my blindfold just as Mr. Grouper breaks out into maniacal laughter. He punches the air in triumph and runs from the room shouting like a lunatic. I take it I guessed incorrectly? I glance at Stan who closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose just as Mr. Grouper returns, shot glasses and a bottle of scotch in hand. With amazing speed, he slams the glasses down on the table in front of me in a line and fills each one with the whiskey.

'Take your medicine, asshole!'

I look blankly at the alcohol and frown. The most alcohol I've ever consumed in one go before now was two small glasses of red wine when Stan's parents had this big dinner for him to celebrate his sixteenth birthday. I had a splitting headache afterwards, despite the fact that it took me three hours to drink them. If I drink all of this shit, I'll be totally fucking trashed. There's gotta be a way out of this. Think Craig, think!

'How do I know you're telling the truth about which glass was which?'

'Butters filled the glasses, dickhead. Are you calling Butters a liar?'

'I don't tell lies, Craig,' Butter pipes up defensively from the back of the room.

I nod, flashing Butters a reassuring smile. Butters is incapable of lying. I guess I lost fair and square, so I need to suck it up and take it like a man. I look back at the line of shots, leaning forward in my chair to sniff at the alcohol curiously. I've never had whiskey before. It smells like a permanent marker. Mr. Grouper laughs.

'What's wrong? Is the high and mighty bird scared of a little booze.'

I frown. 'I'm not scared, you fat bastard! I'm just not used to drinking hard alcohol.'

'Craig, you don't have to drink them if you don't want to.'

Stan has decided to take control and moves to take the shot glasses away from me, but his hands are knocked away by Mr. Grouper.

'Yes he does! He lost the bet.'

'He'll get sick if he drinks all that, you fucking idiot.'

'Well, he should have thought about that before-'

Mr. Grouper trails off as he sees me bring the first shot glass to my lips. My insides clench in disgust as the golden liquid pours down my throat. This stuff tastes like a burning hunk of wood covered in shit. Why would anyone drink this crap for pleasure? I want to get this over with quickly so I down the contents of the other four glasses, spluttering only once after swallowing my third mouthful. As the fifth empty glass hits the table everyone in the room cheers, with the exception of Stan and Wendy who both look horrified.

That was likely one of the stupidest things I've ever done, but the way Mr. Grouper is grinning makes me feel really happy that I did it. He looks genuinely impressed, nodding at me approvingly. I blush, though I don't think he notices. Judging by the sudden tightening of my jeans, I really like the fact that I've made him so pleased.

'My my, Craig,' he drawls. 'It looks like there's more to you than being a bothersome bird after all.'

Mr. Grouper, you don't know the half of it.

I hope that was okay. I really kind of struggled on the last page or so. Let me know what you thought. Chapter four coming soon!

DD

xx