Chapter Track: Video Kid – The Birthday Massacre

Comfort Eagle – Cake

This is the sixth song sticky note that Craig has put on my locker. I'm sure he knows that I'm already familiar with Cake. Aren't most nineties kids? My dad owned all their early albums, along with some other remarkable 1990's fun - You know – Alanis Morisette, early Green Day, Indigo Girls, R.E.M...

I actually still listen to R.E.M. for no other reason than that it reminds me of being a toddler. I think a lot of kids have music like what R.E.M. is to me – something I probably wouldn't listen to if it didn't remind me of this surreal time when I was completely carefree and my obsession with Play-Doh wasn't frowned upon.

I fold this sticky note up and pocket it as usual, but this time, I write my own response right away. It's not a song.

Maybe we should communicate non-sticky note.

Or non-Harbucks order.

I add the last part as an afterthought, because Craig comes into Harbucks almost every day to get coffee, in spite of the lap incident last week. I don't know why he does it. Sure, yeah, he's actually gotten to taste my masterful coffee creations at this point, instead of wiping them off of his Red Racer t-shirt with biodegradable napkins – but it's still Harbucks coffee. Still the cheap commercial stuff. I can tell he knows that, too, but he still comes to Harbucks to waste his money on overpriced coffee in the evenings.

I wander on to trigonometry, which I'm terrible at, because I'm just bad at math. Bad at logic problems, actually. Craig is really fucking good at math. He's in advanced calculus or something ridiculously difficult sounding like that.

I don't talk to anybody in my math class. The other students are mostly a grade younger than me, so I don't know any of the beyond the basic knowledge that comes with being familiar with everybody in a small town. I only really know that Kip Drordy kid. We don't actually talk, but we have a sort of unspoken weird-kid bond.

After math, there's another note on my locker.

I've invited you to hang out like four times, dickhead.

Okay, but I didn't know that he was serious. He was? I mean, I know we used to hang out as kids, but at that point, I was only a little jumpy, only about as afraid of things as normal kids are – the dark, monsters under the bed (underpants gnomes count, right?). The usual.

Now I just have a shitload of things really wrong with me. The only kind of people that can stand to hang around me for than a couple minutes are people that also have too much wrong with them to fit in quite right. The ugly kids, Kip Drordy, sometimes Thomas, but mostly drug-addicted Kenny McCormick. I guess Bebe doesn't mind being around me, but only because we work together.

I wonder briefly If I'd be able to find people that would like me if I left South Park, but promptly realize that I wouldn't know where to go if I left South Park, and that I'd be all alone. At least here I can pretend I'm not alone. At least here I have my parents and working with Bebe and smoking with Kenny.

I sigh, and like always, I fold Craig's sticky not in half and put it in my pocket. I'm going to be late if I keep dawdling, so I scrawl hurriedly on a post-it of my own:

Okay. Let's hang out.

I feel like normal people would have had this conversation out loud.

I'm not normal.

I always thought that Craig was, though.

I find myself envious of his ability to keep and break routine however he chooses. I think he mostly keeps to a routine.

I think I'm fucking with his routine.

For some reason, this delights me.

o.o.o.o

At lunch, I go outside and across the street to smoke with Kenny. It's fucking freezing outside, and not the fun kind of cold in which picturesque snowflakes make the town look like it should belong in a snow globe. No, it's the November kind of cold – it snowed three days ago, so any snow left is either the nasty, so-dirty-it's-black kind, or hardened on the ground into crunchy patches of white ice. The sky is gray all the way around, but I can still see where the sun is. It's a grayish-white disc. I wish it would come out from behind the cloud cover and melt all of the crappy snow.

I say this to Kenny, and he responds, "I like winter." He sort of flaps his arms, and I think he's talking about how he likes to wear his parka all year round, which must be miserable in Coloradan summer heat. I think he wears it so much because he's so skinny and scarred up. I don't think he lives a very good life at home. I once overheard Bebe offering the guest room at her house to him and Karen. He just got mad.

I toss my sack lunch over to him and say, "I'm not hungry. You want this?" It's true. I'm not hungry whatso-fucking-ever. This morning marked one of the mom's manic days. I heard her wake up around three in the morning (to be fair, I wasn't sleeping either, but I never sleep). When I came downstairs three hours later, she'd made two different kinds of pancakes (banana nut and blueberry), crepes, scrambled eggs, and was frying bacon. She was drinking coffee, but I'm pretty sure that she'd spiked it. I saw the Bailey's out next to the coffee maker.

When she gets like that, I try to eat as much as I can, because it makes her happy. I ate so much food this morning that I walk too slowly to make it to the bus, and had to go by foot, until Stan Marsh passed by took pity on me. He gave me a ride the rest of the way. I was stuck in the bitch seat, of course, between Kenny and Cartman – the latter of whom kept trying to yank my coffee out of my hand just to see what kind of reaction he could get out of me.

So I poured scalding coffee down Eric Cartman's jacket.

I grin, because this makes me giddy (even though I wasted half of my good coffee on Cartman's misery).

Kenny nudges my lunch back toward me and says irritably, "Don't need your charity, dude," Even though he says this, his stomach growls. He glares down at the frozen ground and after crushing his Marlboro under his right combat boot, he lights another. I think that when Kenny's hungry, he just smokes more.

"Ngh – dude, I'm seriously not hungry. If you don't eat it, I'm just gonna throw it away," I say. Also true. I often find myself unable to lie to Kenny McCormick. If I do lie, I think he just knows I'm lying, anyway.

Kenny studies me for a moment, and then grabs back the paper sack.

He pushes down his hood and bandana. There's a huge bruise across his cheek.

"Jesus Christ-" I reach out slightly, but he swats my hand away.

"Don't, Tweek," he warns, avoiding eye contact. Before opening the back, he puts out his barely-smoked second cigarette and replaces it in the package. He doesn't ever waste cigarettes. I saw him picking up one my half-smoked ones, once.

He unrolls the top of the paper bag and takes out more manic-mother-produced food, all packed into a little green bento box and thermos. He looks over at me and cocks a brow, "This is what your lunch is like every day? Lucky son of a bitch. What the fuck are these, anyway?" he asks, holding up a plastic baggy.

"Um, banana chips," I answer.

"Banana chips," he repeats, and he shakes his head. Kenny laughs, but the laugh is mirthless. He eats the banana chips anyway, and mid-chew, he queries, "So, how's lusting after Tucker going?"

"I'm not lusting after Craig!" I insist.

By now, Kenny has polished off the banana chips and has moved onto the juice box. His eyes slide over to me with his mouth still on the straw sticking out of the top. He grins, straw between teeth, and comments, "You'll never get laid with that attitude, mister. I didn't realize you were so far in denial."

I make a face at him and reply, "I'm not in denial. I just don't want to have a thing for a straight guy." I feel my face heat up, and I stare down at my hands. They're the same as always – dry and cracked and covered in Band-Aids. Really ugly, fucked up hands.

Kenny washes down my egg salad on sour dough with the final swallow of Minute Maid and rolls his eyes at me. He responds, "If I find out that Tucker is straight, I will give you a hundred bucks."

"You don't have a hundred bucks," I point out.

"Exactly," Kenny states. He unscrews the top of my thermos and exclaims, "Nice! Is this soup, like, homemade, dude? Lucky motherfucker." Kenny tosses aside the lid (which you're supposed to use as a cup. I want to point this out, but refrain, because he would just make fun of me), and chugs down my mom's tomato basil soup.

"But he doesn't go out with boys," I say.

Kenny snorts and retorts, "Have you ever seen him with a girl, either?"

o.o.o.o

When I return, my emptied bento box and thermos stowed away back in my messenger bag, there are two new notes attached to my locker. The first says "Sit with us at lunch" which he stuck on there too late. I feel guilty about missing it, until I see the next one – "Meet at the crosswalk at three."

I guess I'm hanging out with Craig Tucker.

o.o.o.o

I get to the crosswalk two minutes late. Craig is leaning against the stop sign, one hand in the pocket of his baggy jeans, the other holding a smoldering cigarette. Clyde and Token are with him. Clyde waves as I walk up, and Token offers me a stick of peppermint gum, which I refuse.

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"My place," Token says, "We're gonna watch some movies."

"Again?" Clyde, who apparently was not in on the plan, groans, "Craig, if it's any more of your depressing indie bull-"

"No. Horror," Craig says, taking a drag off of his cigarette.

"H-Horror?" I repeat. I've never been good with horror movies. It's like, I know they're not real but they fucking feel real when I watch them. People always get decapitated and shit, and then my neck feels tingly like I'm gonna get beheaded too. Then I can't stop looking behind me, because I'm convinced that there's some guy with a mutilated face toting a chainsaw that's ready to fucking kill me.

Craig raises both brows at me. He says, "Are you seriously scared of horror movies." It's a question, but the way that he speaks makes it sound like a statement.

I glower at him and say, "No!"

He flips me off.

Token see this as his cue to break it up, I suppose, because he clears his throat and steps in between me and Craig as we walk. He says, "My parents have like, really expensive coffee, dude. I don't drink it much but it's imported. I thought you might like some."

I find it difficult to believe that anybody this far into the middle of nowhere would have good coffee, but then, Token is loaded. So, I say, "Imported?"

"Yeah. From like Brazil or somewhere down there," Token shrugs.

How can he just shrug at imported South American coffee beans? I think I'm gaping because Clyde claps me on the back and announced, "Guess if you wanted Tweek here to hang out two weeks ago, you should have just bribed him with Token's fancy-dancy rich people coffee, huh, Craig? Oh, and can we stop at Taco Bell on the way over? I'm getting serious cravings up in here."

"Pregnant, Clyde?" says Craig.

I use my shoulders to push Clyde's arm off of me and muttered, "Don't touch me, dude."

"Ooh-wooo! Okay!" Clyde lifts his hands up in defense, "Gee, sorry for touching you, Tweek."

"Clyde, shut the fuck up," Craig says. He flicks the end of his cigarette onto a pile of stale snow and glances over to me. He holds my gaze for a moment. I think he's doing it to throw me off or something, even though he just defended me. So, I stare right back. His eyes are really dark – so much so that they're nearly black. Maybe that's what makes me so tense when he's looking at me; the fact that I can't see his pupils, or maybe that his face is so blank that I can't tell what he's thinking. I know he must be thinking about something. Right?

Craig looks away first.

I consider this a victory.

I refuse to go into the Taco Bell with the rest of them – "Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how disgusting those places are?" – I hate fast food restaurants. It's a combination of things that created this hate. Somehow, the way that they tile their floor or something makes them look perpetually dirty, and they smell like fake meat and mass-produced floor cleaner. Plus the people inside fast food joints never look happy. They always look like they're about to murder somebody. Mainly, murder me.

They thankfully don't take too long, though when they emerge from the Taco Bell, I wonder what kind of order fills a bag as large as the one in Clyde's hands. At least his attention is occupied. I don't think he'll be touching me anymore, and that's nice.

The way to Token's house is a bit of a trek, especially with all the icy snow leftovers littering the sidewalks. I almost fall a couple of times, but manage to catch myself, and Clyde actually does fall (because he cared more about rescuing his Taco Bell than regaining his balance). It takes a half hour before we reach it, but when we do, the walk feels worth it.

I think the last time that I went to Token's house, I must have been eleven. That would have been right before puberty hit me like a two-foot-thick brick wall, causing all my problems to manifest at once, and thusly turning me into South Park's resident psycho kid. I kind of miss being little and naïve, but then I remember that I like sex too much to want to go back to the playground days.

The house is huge – not that that's news – but I think that the Blacks have added some renovations since I last laid eyes on the place. There's a new porch lacing all the way around the front, made out of honey-colored wood and decorated by well-loved topiary and plants potted in painted ceramic vases. Token sees me staring and comments that gardening is a hobby of his father's.

Token opens the front door with a key that dangles off of his lanyard. There's a car key, too, and I wonder why he doesn't just drive to school.

The inside of Token's house looks a lot like a remember it, with a marble foyer embellished with surreal art. A large staircase leads to the second floor in a half-spiral. Instead of heading, up, though, Token leads us down the steps leading to the basement. He makes us take our shoes off first, and we leave them on the shiny hardwood floor do we don't stain the cream-colored plush carpeting with the gross slush we all stomped through.

I glance back at the kitchen before descending and ask, "What about the coffee?"

"There's a coffee bar downstairs," explains Token.

Holy fuck, how rich are these people?

My answer becomes "rich as shit" when I see the promised coffee bar – well, the espresso machine, really. I can't help myself. I exclaim, "Jesus Christ, dude! This is a La Marzocco! Holy shit! These go for like, 6.5k, oh my God." I want to touch it, but I don't think that would be polite. Instead, I stand before the machine in nothing less than awe, wringing my bandaged hands together.

Token says, "You can use it, dude. I'm not really sure how, to be honest."

I'm trying desperately to keep my cool, but I'm standing in front of the classiest fucking espresso machine in South Park, probably the classiest espresso machine in all of Park Country. I clench my fists at my sides and ask, stuttering over my words, "Where do you keep your b-beans?"

"Cabinet," replies Token, pointing, "Craig, go put the movie in."

"What are we watching, anyway?" asks Clyde, "Just because Craig said 'horror' doesn't get us out of the woods. It's probably still some indie weird shit." His mouth is full of cheap burrito. Clyde has set up camp on a suede-upholstered lounge chair. I hope he doesn't smear Taco Bell all over it. It looks expensive. From Token's pursed lips, I'd guess that he's worrying about the same thing.

"Let the Right One In," answers Craig, from the other room. I peer around the doorway. It's a home theatre – an enormous one, with three rows of leather recliners on wide, slightly elevated stairs, one over the other. There's even a projector and a big white screen.

"Woah," I say, before I can help myself.

Craig glances over his shoulder at me for only a second before returning to his position on the carpet, where he's fiddling with the DVD player.

Clyde groans behind me, "Dude, isn't that like, foreign, or something?"

"Yes, Clyde," responds Craig, "You'll have to submit yourself to subtitles. I know it's hard, but I'm sure we can get through this together." Sarcasm drips off of every word.

Somehow, the notion of having to read subtitles makes the idea of watching a horror movie seem less daunting to me, like reading the words on the screen will ground me and I won't feel like the movie is so real. I feel a trace of a smile on my mouth and duck back to the coffee bar – out of which I suspect one of the best cups of coffee of my life is about to be produced.

o.o.o.o

It is, just so you know.

The coffee is fucking glorious, and for the first few minutes of the film, I'm distracted enough that I'm not scared.

But then the coffee's gone.

I'm actually thankful for Clyde's running commentary at this point, even his complaints about being made to watch another "pussy-ass foreign film." His chatter keeps me out of the film enough to not be terrified of the creepy Swedish children. There's something about me that doesn't mix well with creepy-ass Swedish children.

"Dude, Clyde, I'm trying to watch it," Token pipes up. He throws an empty soda can across me and Craig, who are in the middle. It bounces off of Clyde's head.

He whispers, "Hey!"

Craig flips Clyde off, even though he wasn't the one that threw the offending Mountain Dew can.

Then everybody's quiet.

I don't like it. Now I have to pay attention.

I rise to make my escape to the La Marzocco espresso machine for more coffee.

Craig's hand clamps down on my knee and forces me back down into a sitting position. He says lowly, "You'll miss the good part."

"It's scary," I say back, and hopefully I'm quiet enough in doing this that Token and Clyde can't hear me say it. I'm fucking embarrassed that I can't handle horror movies, even ones that are in a language I don't understand.

Craig blinks to the movie and then back at me. After a few seconds of consideration, he says, "You'll be fine."

I don't think so. I look at him like he's grown a second head, but he isn't looking at me anymore. He's watching the movie with undivided attention. I don't think that he's even blinking.

I start gnawing at my cuticles.

I shiver.

Craig takes my wrist and moves my hand out of my mouth. I think that the touching should bother me, but it doesn't. I debate for a moment, but then, after making certain that Clyde and Token aren't looking, I extend my hand, offering it to him.

Craig stares at my hand like somebody stares at a bug. I flush and start to move away. I have ugly hands. They're way too big and knobby and dry and covered in Toy Story Band-Aids. My right hand is covered in my spit from chewing on it just a moment ago. Maybe I should apologize to him for grossing him out.

"Tweek," he remarks.

Jesus Christ, I like the way that he says my name.

"You need to stop fucking with your hands," Craig finishes.

And he tucks his hand into mine.

o.o.o.o

Much thanking and creepy hugs for my superb reviewers: MariePierre, ObanesHarvest (I fucking love you too! :D), KirstenTheDestroyer, Alex0821, Wendlekins, TheSlashEmpress, TheAwesome15, Scarlet Wolf, R.R. Miaera, Amberr-chan, and Surnoom. *Takes deep breath* Holy shit, there are a lot of you.

General things to address, my taste in music umbrellas pretty much everything so don't be surprised if you don't like some of the songs in here, if you're the kind of person that likes to listen to fic music (I do, haha). Plus I try to give each of Matt & Trey's characters a little bit of flavor with their own different taste in music, so uh. Yeah.

Ramble ramble ramble, I love you all.