A/N: I'm worried on how I portrayed Mr. Donovan as I feel like I've written him as if he was Mr. Tucker instead. It will improve, I promise. It's just... it is hard to add speech to a character that has never/barely spoken in its original show, y'know? So lets say his close relationship with Craig's father is why he talks like that. You know how people begin to copy people's style of speech when they always hear it? Yup, that's my excuse.

Oh, and I corrected the timing in the last chapter. A month hasn't already passed, it's still the same day. I'm awfully sorry about that. It's South Park, anyway. Shit happens, and this is barely a 1/6 of the drama.

Chapter 2

Devious Dates and Betraying Bros ( 1 )

Dates are one of those events that are forever imprinted in your brain, whether you like it or not. Either you asked the other person out or they asked you, it still leads to the same dreadful hours. The places you will visit together, the smells that your nose will taste, the food your mouth will devour, the special moments that hopefully will still make your chest tingle from the memory and the person you were with. There are first dates, good dates, boring dates, blind dates your friends forced you in, positive and negative life-changing dates and horrible dates you regret terribly.

But has anyone ever been in a deceitful date?

4:00 pm

Bebe Stevens had already styled her light, radiant hair into a downward maid braid; an old age classic hair-do, fit for someone who appreciates the nice, boring and sophisticated. She used a navy barrette, the one that was voted the prettiest barrette out of their year by the rest of the girls, that was embedded with rhinestones and when it was worn it looked like a raspberry pink rose was wrapped around it; she firmly hooked it to the ending of her braid, right underneath her small left ear and stopped messing about with it after she felt it was on correctly. A pair of small, red hoop earrings hung in the holes that were made in her ear lobes from the young age of 13 years old. An amethyst halter neck dress made of silk with little white dots printed all over it hugged her hard-earned hour-glass figure until it loosely reached her knees. For the lower half of her body, she wore 3 thick nude opaque tights to fight against the cruel weather of South Park, a pair of lavender open toed high heels ironically, around 5 inches in height, and a magenta pea-coat with black buttons that she had bought in the mall with Red and Lola.

Clyde Donovan was dressing up before he was going to practice on his flirting techniques in front of his full body mirror in his bedroom. The room was full of old and new food wrappers from different fast food chains, pictures that held unforgettable memories, colors in the yellow and blue spectrum and trophies from the games the South Park Cows Varsity football team had surprisingly won. A hefty collection of Playboys, top rated movies, box sets and video games lied on the floor near his rack of shoes next to him.

On the top of the pile was the 'F.R.I.E.N.D's' box set and one man on the easily recognizable cover inspired him to be the ultimate man for his date.

So, Clyde quickly stole some hair products and strong masculine perfume from his only parent's alive, Mr. Donovan, bathroom for himself. He remembered when he read one of his mother's magazines that women love quiffs, so he did so. It failed, though, and it took it a while for him to change it back to normal. He decided to slick some of the hair strands on the side with some gel vertically so it was flat against the side walls of his skull. The previous hairstyle thickened his hair so he was stuck with a full fringe on his forehead.

"Argh," he whined out of frustration, "How do chicks do this every day?" he grumbled, temporarily forgetting that he finds pretty much everything hard to do, as he tried to flatten some disobedient hair strands.

He thought he looked like one of the guys in the Beatles. Out of pure irritation, he scooped a big dollop of gel and swept his bangs back so it was almost like Elvis but with no quiff. It worked after a lot of mouse and more gel but there was a few white heads hidden under his skater boy do, and his idol would never go out with that.

He felt like crying when he checked the time on his alarm clock as it blinked and flashed 4:35 pm in electric blue. He was already tired from trying to look just right and it wasn't working, at all. His shoulders and chest felt heavy from exhaustion but he remembered Craig's motivating words.

"...and don't cry, for fucks sake, Clyde. You are such a pussy."

He sucked in some machine generated air before letting it out to calm himself down. He nodded to himself in the mirror and put on the black Italian suit his dad told him to wear whenever they were celebrating a special occasion over his casual cyan t-shirt. 'Wow!' magazine give really great tips about fashion, okay? Okay.

He smirked at himself in the mirror. Apart from the obvious flaws, like puberty choosing to give him common flaws instead of a little mustache like his friends, he looked pretty fly for a white guy.

"Hey, how you doin," Clyde asked the imaginary Bebe in the mirror, "Hey... how you doin."

He raised his hands and started pointing at his reflection with his hands like guns as he wiggled his eyebrows, "Hey, how you doin~."

He shoved his fists into his pockets and swayed back and forth on his dark, sandy beige carpet before heaving a breath he didn't know he was holding in.

"I'm having a date with Bebe. This is, like, my dream, literally, dude... apart from being a Taco King… mmm tacos," he dreamed momentarily before opening his eyes in a hurry. Clyde checked the time anxiously once again to see that it was now 4:45 pm.

"Shit."

He looked outside his window from where he was standing. The sky bombarded with clouds that were gloomy and melancholic, like usual, visually telling him that he should take a coat.

Clyde may not be one of the brightest of the pack but he knew the basics; the only things he needed to know, no need to make things complicated like Token usually does. So, he sprayed some Lynx on his some what formally clothed body because the adverts told him about the 'Lynx Affect' and he wondered if it would work with Bebe; it probably would. He took his lucky red Letterman jacket with the number 'SP' on the right breast region, wore it so it heated his torso and zipped it up. He went back to his trusty mirror next to his brown closet beside his bed and winked after checking himself out.

Yep, this date was going to go just fine… hopefully.

It was 4:55 pm when the secretly nervous Clyde rushed down the stairs, went back up to his bedroom to wear one of Mr. Donovan's classy maroon brogues for his average, size 8 feet, and back down again before he was disturbed by his father.

"So, you are finally done with impersonating the fictional womanizer, Joey Tribbiani, in front of your mirror, Clyde," he said in a more of a mocking tone than an inquisitive one in the living room's sandy brown, fairly comfortable couch.

Mr. Donovan had adapted a liking to witty sense of humor from his good friend, Mr. Tucker; he simply enjoyed satire, especially after the pre-mature loss of his stern but loving wife. His wrinkly but warm cinnamon eyes, the eye color Clyde had inherited, were scanning the page about the weather, being a Geologist as well as a shoe shop owner, in the latest town newspaper that was published weekly through are pair of rectangular glasses with a black rim. He didn't even blink at what Clyde was wearing and he didn't think he'd want to. It was probably some tacky booty shorts because Clyde always thought he was sexy and great celebrity impersonator when he was drunk, a scene that occurred often because of Clyde's consistent crying.

Clyde was the worst emotional drunk; he'd be angry at one minute, horny and then sad for the next 24 hours. Even during his hangover.

"…Uhuh," Clyde replied, slightly embarrassed at the fact that he was that loud.

"That's great, because, you know, Clyde, how many times I've told you..."

"Dutch people can not be sexy, only the Scottish and Irish can."

Roger Donovan was Scottish from his mother's side and Irish from his father's. He always saw himself to be incredibly attractive even though he still wore those horrendous grandpa cardigans over his ironed shirt and expensive tailored jeans.

"You got that right, Softie."

Clyde winced the nickname given to him because he wore his emotions under his thin sleeve every day. He didn't like it, but he couldn't help but control his powerful, over whelming water works when ever he was feeling the even slightly hurt by a comment that he felt was insulting, a horrible event he had unfortunately witnessed or if when he was expecting something amazing, learnt that it wasn't happening and felt disappointed.

Clyde checked the time on the wall clock, it was already 5:05 pm, and speedily flew out of the front door. Mr. Donovan shook his head in amusement and gasped in genuine shock when he flicked the page about sports to read that his favourite baseball team had lost, again.

'Shit.'

5:21 pm

Bebe was tapping her shoes in the snowy dent she made from being impatient. It was 21 minutes past the time Craig should have been here and she couldn't bare the thought about the death of Craig if he left her alone like this. He was lucky that she, of all people, asked him out, anyway, because if he hadn't been moved to the top of the list she wouldn't have bothered at all. This certainly would be the talk of the town if he ditched a date with Bebe Stevens seeing as a date with her was liking winning the golden ticket, rare but fucking awesome.

The musky clouds dancing in the now blood-curdling sky fitted with Bebe's mood so perfectly it was unbelievably uncanny. She crossed her arms underneath conspiring double D rack and swore at the empty space surrounding her. The towering trees behind her sheltered her aggravated form from the oncoming snowfall and she was glad for that.

"Bebe," Clyde panted. He was tired from all the running and then the jogging; he could feel the metallic taste of his pumping blood resting in the back of his throat and the heavy oxygen rushing through his arms. He was usually used to all this exercise as he was recently placed as a Quarterback 7 months ago but he lived 11 blocks away from the popular hang out and he was really hungry, pretty much borderline starving. He needed food, and now.

"Is that you, Clyde?" Bebe asked. She could hear the vague crunching sound Clyde's feet were making on the snow, now reaching ankle height, increase in volume and she turned her head to see tired figure still pacing towards her.

"Uh, yeah," Clyde answered when he stopped and stood, gradually leaning in so he could be nose-to-nose with Bebe as he was pretty short and only just a couple of inches above her. His heavy breath hit her coated lips in an even rhythm, his eyes fluttered shut so he could fully indulge this moment as he regulated his faltered breathing and his chubby hands hid in his trouser pockets shyly.

"Uh..." Bebe took a step away, with the awkwardness of being in this position of your ex-boyfriend in mind, and Clyde sulked a bit before regaining his posture, "Where is Craig? He's late."

"... Yup, and if the bitch asks you where I am, say I am with Tweek. You got that?" was what Craig had told Clyde during their intense and devious bro-to-bro conversation they had at break. Token was frowning knowingly because he knew how Bebe could be after his brief relationship with Wendy Testaburger in 9th grade, having being forced to hang out with her friends from time to time. She could see through the greatest of lies and punished who ever has done bad actions towards her or her set of preppy friends. Sometimes she was even scarier than Cartman, and Token always grimaced at this.

"He's with Tweek," Clyde repeated his thoughts out loud so Bebe can hear it nice and clear, take it in and just go to a restaurant with him already. He patted his pockets to make sure he still had his wallet inside it an mentally smiled when he felt it in his right one before looking back at Bebe who stared at him with a high level of disbelief.

"Prove it, Clyde. Call Craig so I can know if he is actually with Tweek," Bebe growled, bowed her head in a 30 degree angle and bounced it back up expectantly at him to proceed the following action.

Clyde inwardly crossed his fingers, hoping that Craig has already prepared a back up plan if Bebe were to doubt this, which she did, and ask him to call the guy in question himself. He nodded back hesitantly and took out his silver Nokia phone with touch screen, fiddled with it in both hands from the nerves and thick atmosphere, pressed 7 when it was showing him the number pad (Craig's favorite number was 7 so he thought it was fitting that he was '7' on speed dial) and unintentionally let the ringing raise the mild tension Bebe has created.

5:21 pm

There was a cigarette sitting comfortably in their home between Craig's chapped lips, a lazy, covered head resting on the badly painted yellow ochre bricks of a school wall, a pair of shoulders slouching, a pair of hands warming up nicely inside the pockets of a moderately hot fleece and a pessimistic mind running like a hamster wheel as it thought about the strangeness of what happened earlier.

Craig's instincts were still lingering in the back of this same mind and were annoying the fuck out of him with out permission. They were screaming at him about their message, how something he didn't want to happen to begin with will come to pass and it was apparent that this was starting little by little right now. He furrowed his thick eyebrows in confusion; it couldn't be the Tuckers' move back to South Park because even though he didn't want to come back, he felt more passive about that than infuriated. It could have been Tweek, seeing as he didn't murder him or something even remotely close to that. No homicidal thoughts crossed his mind, no urges to smack him nor did he find humor in his persistent ticks that died down in the past few hours once he relaxed.

His eyes traveled to the boy standing next to the right side of him that could possibly be what his instincts were telling him about. Tweek drank his dearly loved thermos like it was the best thing he could ever drink, which was probably true in his case. His nerves were over working again and you could see it in his shaking from it in combination with the weather. His straw-colored mane a few feet away from him waved like a flag whenever a gust of wind blew everything in its path, including the bushes, the trees and the litter causing land pollution, and fell back down to its frizzy, wild state when it stopped only to repeat the same thing again and again.

Tweek looked up from his interesting coal black boots to stare back at what he firstly thought would be intimidating one doing the same to him. Instead it owned a more curious look, a dead cigarette still hanging upwards in his lips and Tweek's first reaction was to act pissed off, for what ever reason.

"W-What is –ngh- it, assh-hole, huh?" he asked angrily, a dark scowl started to grow on his typically troubled face, "c-cut out the b-bullshit and –gah- g-get it over with, C-C-Craig –Jesus-."

Tweek was tired of the sudden friendliness Craig was showing him as this wasn't like him at all.

People usually forget about Tweek's tough exterior, and still remain shocked when they see this side of him. It wasn't unusual; actually, it was just masked by all the anxiety unsuccessfully being treated by therapists and psychologists. This very core of him only unveiled itself when he was with this very person, Craig Tucker. Even though he scared him to no ends, especially in public, his remaining bit of pride always loved to cuss him and punch him when it felt its strongest. This only really happened when he was pestered by the other students, their whispers about what Craig supposedly and probably had said makes the unsatisfied part of him grow and would him box Craig around when he wasn't feeling weak, which was now never ever since the 'Biggest Fight of the Year' in 8th grade. 'Weak' was Tweek's middle name; not that he liked it but it was true.

The contemplative man's temperamental switch was finally triggered on. His lesson on energy and adrenaline was long forgotten and anger came back like in a family reunion, 'Just when I see him in a good light, he fucking starts it again. Fucking… bitchy… wagon.'

Craig spat out his last cigarette, a minimal amount of saliva falling with it, and left it to lie on the concrete before leaving his spot near the entrance to the 'tough' guy trying to start a fight with him. His bony hands left his pockets; turned into fists at his side, his somewhat wrinkled knuckles changed from its faint, sunny tan he got in Denver and turned into a menacing, ghost white. His eyes changed from being wide into little slits, his lips twitched downwards and his eyebrows copied the previous ones of the petrified blond trembling under his chilling aura. "Get what over with, freak?"

Tweek flinched at his newly found intimidating use of words, instantly regretting what he said, "T-too m-m-much –argh- pressure~."

He took a big sip of coffee but that didn't help at all; Craig was approaching closer and closer and he was belittling his scrawny self more and more. He was saved by an over protective jock who busted through the doors and hated Craig like no other.

Stan was going on about the game to a good friend of his, rambling about the touchdowns and how easy it was, "Yeh, that touchdown was a piece of- Craig, stop being such a fucking asshole to Tweek!" Stan screamed when he saw Tweek trying to run away from a close punch. He was already glowering at Craig like an unmanageable cannibal ready to kill and only had Kyle to restrain him by holding him by his fore-arms.

"Stan…" Kyle mumbled in his ear fearfully, he could feel the uneasiness and the sickness in the pit of his stomach, as he tried to tame him.

"Fucking Marsh," Craig seethed through his straight teeth. He figured that Stan had just finished football training, Clyde decided to skip that day because of Bebe, and Kyle was there to eyeball Stan because he was obviously gay after all those girls he rejected. This didn't count for Craig, he was asexual not a closeted homosexual mentally touching and fucking his 'Super Best Friend.'

"No, Kyle, don't 'Stan' me. Craig is being a dick," he sassed out on Kyle. Craig turned around to face Stan, his signature bobble blue and red hat was not on his head and his fury made his uncovered messy, slate black bangs shake every time he tried to get out off his friend's tight grip on his wrists.

"Please, Stan," Kyle begged some more. He really didn't want him to make a scene, and it seemed to have worked because Stan obediently stopped and calmed down before apologizing.

"Sorry, Kyle," Stan said with a sincere, apologetic look on his face before glaring once more at Craig and back with shame at Kyle. He was ready to leave and finally finish the Science assignment with his life-long best friend who always gets straight-A's when Craig, with his head dizzy with hatred and all the pressure ready to gush out, threw a fist at Stan's open jaw still close to him.

"Shit!" Stan winced, taking a minute to hold unto the pulsing bruise, it was already a deadly taupe and purple. Tweek was bewildered, he was expecting that to hit him like the several other injuries he gained in his early middle school years. Kyle, although used to the common occurrence of such obscenity, still looked aghast and he ran inside to try and get someone to stop this because he really didn't feel like getting hurt then.

When Kyle was gone, Stan punched Craig in his favorite spot, his rib cage, out of vengefulness. They were both completely delirious; boots and sneakers were beating shins, palms were slapping vivid red cheeks, nails were scratching skin and knuckles were beating the contours of many muscly limbs. Neurotic Tweek's were paralyzed, people were watching and... a phone was ringing?

Craig ignored the vibrations in his left jeans pocket to continue acting out his rage on Stan. They were both on the floor now, Craig was straddling Stan, throwing punches and socking each other in the nose. They were huffing and puffing and huffing some more, they were both trying to give the last punch, they were both trying to knock each other out of consciousness. They both had forgotten why they were even fighting in the first place, but they just didn't care. They could both hear the jeering and the booing, the scared shrieks and... Clyde Donovan.

"Craig, Bebe wants to know if you are with Tweek or not," said Clyde through the phone. Stan must have accidentally accepted the phone call and put it on loudspeaker.

Craig stood up, not minding his injuries and the crimson droplets of blood trickling down his cheeks, way down to his jaw, his neck and unto his fleece, nor did he mind Stan's. He didn't mind the grazes on his arms and his legs. He didn't mind the eyes double taking the scene and the fingers busily texting it to their friends. He didn't mind the whispers, the mutters and the alarmed faces, including Kyle's and Principal Victoria's. He just wanted to talk to Clyde and see what he wanted, maybe that would calm him down.

He asked to be excused by Principal Victoria to talk to Clyde and she reluctantly accepted his request.

Bebe and Clyde heard the grunts, the slamming and the cursing. They could vaguely hear the audience, the 'oo's' and the 'aah's'. They both knew Craig was fighting some one, that some one was most likely to be Stan Marsh.

They both waited patiently for it to end, or at least Craig's attention. Clyde whistled and Bebe started tapping her heel again to end the silence. When they heard the grunting, slamming and cursing die down, Clyde glanced at Bebe, who prodded him on, and put it on loudspeaker before talking. "Craig, Bebe wants to know if you are with Tweek or not."

Craig instantly replied, his voice still nasally but also robotic from the electric static you hear on the phone. "Yup, I'm with Tweek, Tweek..."

Tweek squeaked about his conspiracies about jail to the phone from surprise and asked if Clyde was one. Clyde assured him that it was not the FBI but he couldn't help but be confused, why was Craig actually with Tweek? He had no idea, but he was going to ask him that later.

Bebe sulked like Clyde had done earlier and Clyde's stomach started rumbling ferociously. He finished the call and put the phone back in his pocket after asking Craig what happened only to hear him say he was going to vent to Tweek quickly before going to the Principal's office with Marsh.

Both Clyde and Bebe looked around in the lot they both knew very well to prevent the awkward after talk from beginning. The fir trees acted like skyscrapers, its shadows lied on top of the snow dumped from the heavens. There were squirrels, badgers, stray dogs and cats lurking around the branches and wet bushes that startled Clyde, naturally. The sky was still blood-curdling but it was now also a hypnotizing hybrid of gray, scarlet and burnt orange as the thick clouds hid the sinking sun.

"Hey, Bebe?" Clyde asked for her attention when he felt his stomach rumble again and she drew her focus to the slightly husky face in front of her.

"Yes."

"Do you want to go to Taco Bell? Not, like, for a date," he scoffed, "or anything but, you know, as friends," he stuttered as he looked around and stared at the far away mountains separating South Park from Denver. His heart was softly pounding against his rib cage from the fear of rejection.

Bebe stood there, thinking whether she should go or not and then accepted the request, "Sure, I'll come."

"You will? Awesome, have I ever told you how cool you are Bebe?" Clyde cheered and asked. He subconsciously grabbed her hand, excited for his one-sided totally romantic date with Bebe in his favorite restaurant.

But Bebe was thinking other wise, her mind wasn't focusing on his rhetorical question. She was too busy plotting something in her head. It was unfortunately out of her control, the destructive boobs she owned had spread its evilness to the rest of her body, including her heart and brain. Bebe would always seek revenge, even if what the counter person had done was intentional or not.

She knew a special person who was perfect for the sprouting idea in her head and also worked in Taco Bell. She would collide with this person, some one just as menacing as her true self, in a twisted plan. She was ditched, and she was never ditched. Craig will learn his lesson and change to how he should be with the little help of her influential, conspiring rack, this special person and her very own mind.

With all due respect to Wendy, her methods of revenge is nothing even remotely close to Bebe Stevens' own; killing slutty teachers with assassins is too quick to be thoroughly enjoyed and that saying of hers is complete phony because everybody knows...

"No one, and we mean no one, fucks with Bebe Stevens... and her boobs, seriouslah."

-Project OD: 2.1-