Author's Update:

With the Prologue now completed, the real story can begin. I hope you enjoy how 'Bullets' pans out and thanks to those of you who gave some very positive reviews to my previous story. I'm as excited as ever to continue writing this! The last chapter was delayed by a few days, firstly due to a heavy workload from classes, but also because of the Paris Attacks. I have a friend studying there, who actually lives only one metro stop away from where it all kicked off, and so I was too concerned to write that night. Fortunately, she's safe and I hope there won't be too many delays on future chapters. Also, for some reason, the cover art never seems to load properly, but I have set some. Sorry if you can't see it!


Witness Statements:

It's been one week exactly since the events of Halloween, but we're no closer to real answers. Clyde disappeared, apparently running further off into the woods after I passed out, and Jimmy is still in the hospital. Selfish though it may sound, however, I've been more concerned with Craig than with anyone or anything else. He refuses to explain, no matter how much I prod, what exactly happened after anxiety had its way with me. I feel awful for leaving him, all alone, to handle the police and ambulances; just thinking about it makes my chest cringe in sympathetic pain. It's in the past though, so all I can do is hopefully make things up to him, and I've been trying hard to do just that. As if time will somehow make us forget seeing our friend being shot, we've both been given an authorised period of study leave: no school so long as we complete our classwork at home. With so much more time on our hands, Craig has effectively (albeit sadly only temporarily) moved in with me. My parents, being incredibly devoted to their work at the coffee shop as they are, haven't even noticed and today is no different in having the house once again to ourselves.

I'm downstairs in the kitchen, making a coffee for myself and some breakfast for Craig, whom I left sleeping peacefully upstairs. He's always been stoic, sure, but lately things have gotten worse. He barely talks at all! Perhaps, even though I subconsciously know it is ultimately futile, some kind gestures will help ease the situation. Breakfast is just that: a kind gesture, which today comes in the form of some scrambled eggs on toast. As I wait for the toaster to pop, I look out of the window and across the yard. A thin layer of snow has settled, almost like the sprinkles on a doughnut, across the grass and the windows are frosted such that the outside world seems to have a bluish tint. The sight alone makes me shiver, despite the full-blast heating inside, and acutely aware of my lack of clothing. Only an old pair of boxer-briefs, which are slightly too small (and thus revealing) after the latest teenage growth spurt, protects my modesty.

Pop! I immediately begin liberally scooping some scrambled eggs onto the lightly toasted bread, topping it off with ketchup, which rather amusingly we both have a 'thing' for. Ever since I was a little kid, my parents would always moan at me for putting too much of the red stuff on my fries, and I can distinctly remember a few food fights with fourth-grader Craig involving it too. Things were simpler, at one time in my life, like that. Back then, we could have food fights, play superheroes or villains, and our biggest concern was getting in trouble with our parents - not shootings. It seems unbelievably surreal to even think of it, to think I was involved in a 'shooting', but I was. I start to shake at just the thought, my anxiety kicking in yet again, and have to steel myself enough in order to continue dishing up breakfast.

Knock! Knock! The noise is sudden and piercing in the otherwise silent house. I shoot forward in surprise, fumbling with my hands as they struggle but fail to keep a grasp on the suddenly slippery ketchup bottle. It falls to the ground, pointed downwards like a harbinger of the apocalypse: the nuclear bomb, and deep red sauce oozes onto the floor with a squirt. Knock! It's the door.

"Gah! Pressure," I shout, pulling violently at my hair and ripping a small, thankfully unnoticeable clump out. Still practically naked, my eyes dart around the room and settle on a blanket, which I drape around myself like a cape before opening the front door to peek my head around. Almost instantly, I can feel the bitterly cold air gnawing away at my skin and I hope that whoever it is are quickly gone so that I can return to the warmth.

"Mister Tweak? I'm Sergeant Yates from the South Park Police Department. We're going to need you and your friend, a 'Craig Tucker', to come down to the station today to make statements. I was told I could find you both here?"

The man appears middle-aged, though it's hard to tell whether the wrinkles and sagging eyes are from age or simply tiredness, with slicked-back ginger hair and an old-fashioned moustache. He looks like the stereotypical 'hick' town Sheriff, a caricature if you will, but nevertheless I still nod politely and with a shaking hand take the piece of paper which he offers. It's crumpled and written in a near illegible handwriting. However, I can still make out a time for our 'appointment' and, after tucking it in the waistband of my underwear for temporary safekeeping, I meekly wave the officer off so that I can return to the kitchen.

Fortunately, my coffee has finished brewing; it's just what I need. I twirl the black liquid around in my personal cup, which is adorned with cartoon cat pictures and has my name written across the handle in permanent marker after my past paranoia of other people using it, and slowly sip away at it. The caffeinated beverage soothes my mind and, as I hop up onto the counter for a seat, I sigh in realisation that Craig's breakfast has gone cold in the time it took me to talk to the officer at the door. I grab a fork and decide to begin eating it myself, when suddenly there comes the sound of floorboards creaking obnoxiously loud above. Craig's awake.

. . .

The six foot beast stands in the kitchen doorway, basking in the aptly bluish, wintry light of the opposite window and smirking knowingly as he catches sight of me. Such an expression from someone normally so deadpan means only one thing and it isn't long before I look down to gaze longingly at the yearning muscle in his underwear, which stretches the cotton/spandex fabric to its limits. Soon, our hands are exploring each other to the satisfaction of welcoming moans and said underwear is discarded as I perch myself atop the counter in anticipation. Both of our members are throbbing virulently, filled with primal desire.

Click! There's a flash of light, followed by the harsh sound of footsteps running, and in the corner of my eye I can briefly see the distinct purple shirt of none other than Token Black. The door slams shut, sending vibrations throughout the entire house, and then we're left in silence. Craig's brow twitches, his face scowling with that same look of disapproval as on Halloween night, and in preparation for the inevitable I slip back into my underwear. It feels cold, having been left on the lino flooring, and I shiver at its touch.

"That," he pauses, heaving out a mouthful of air as though it were poison to his lungs, and turns to look at me. "That fucker! Shit! How did he even get in here?"

"Uh... There w-was an o-officer... And I m-m-might h-have left the d-door open..."

"What!?"

"Gah! Pressure! Craig, just c-c-calm d-down!"

Craig clenches his fists, visibly clammy and sweaty from the sheer anger within him, at his sides and heads out through the kitchen doorway. There comes the sound of floorboards, presumably from the stairs, squeaking loudly. Within seconds, I can hear bags being packed - frantically, furiously, frustratingly.

. . .

The police station is surprisingly large, given the otherwise small size of South Park itself, but disorganised. There seems to be very few members of staff and papers, as though we're back in the twentieth century and the days before digital records, are littered all over the place. Still, it's an improvement from the days of my early childhood, back when it was just Officer Barbrady alone; that guy could barely even read properly. I'm waiting, unattended or even supervised, outside of an office where I will soon be giving my statement. The walls are white, peeling from age, and the bottom half is covered in dated wood panelling. From inside, I can hear Craig (he went before me) talking. Him having angrily left earlier after Token caught us in the 'act', it's the first time I've heard his voice in hours - a rarity.

"It was Halloween night," began Craig, monotonous as ever. "We were camping... Tweek and I... gunfire... unconscious... bleeding..."

His words are muffled. I move closer to the door, trying to listen in, but to no avail.

"Tweek... worried..."

Suddenly, there comes the sound of sniffling. It's quiet at first, but soon becomes louder. What initially sounded like a cold, maybe even hay fever if it were a warmer day, twists menacingly into the unmistakable sound of sobbing. Cupping my ear to the door, which singes with coldness as it greets the bare skin of my earlobe, I pinpoint the exact source. There's no mistake. It's Craig!