I hate how sometimes I make up words, and Microsoft Word is like "No! There is no such thing! You are an idiot!" I much prefer the words I make...
Anyway, back to the story. So... some people might think I'm getting preachy here, but I want you to rest assured that if you keep an open mind, it won't effect the story at all. Surprisingly enough, I DO have a moral in this tale which will slowly be revealed. I hope you keep reading and enjoying it though. It only gets better from here on out (I predict... two... maybe three more chapters).
Disclaimer: I'm running out of witty things to put here. If you have any ideas, tell me them, and I just might use them! I don't own South Park or any characters there in.
Enjoy!
I'm Not Insane, I'm Catholic
Chapter 4
"Stanley," the teacher breathed, disapprovingly. "You're a talented young man, and you've got a bright future ahead of you. But if you keep getting these consecutive tardies, you're never gonna get ahead in life."
What did that have to do with anything? So what if this was his sixteenth tardy (four tardies make an office detention, simple math proves that sixteen lates make two office detentions, and two office detentions make a Saturday detention. Guess I'm not going to Cartman's birthday party after all)? He was still young, just a Junior in high school, and had the rest of his life ahead of him to get it right.
"Wait here, I've got to go back to class," the teacher commanded, forcing his voice to be authoritative. He and Stan were actually good friends, and respected each other, but… this was his job, after all. Stan plopped down in one of the seats just outside the Principal's office and watched his teacher disappear back into the hallway. This was such a joke.
He was tempted to break out his iPod and listen to it, help pass the time and all, but not wanting to risk that one refuge to confiscation, he resisted the urge. Instead, he tried to hum all of his favorite songs from memory. But the incessantly ticking clock in the background messed with his beat, and eventually he abandoned the idea all together.
Scanning the room out of sheer boredom, Stan set his eyes on a boy who was sitting way down the aisle of seats at the very end. He was hunched over, his face in his hands, the arch of his spine rising and falling sporadically. It was Craig Tucker by the looks of it, but Stan couldn't be sure without seeing his face.
Stan listened closer in esoteric fascination. Craig was obviously crying. His shoulders shuddered with his ragged gasps, weeping nearly uncontrollably, trembling in his seat.
He took a breath and fidgeted in his chair, staring at the office's clock, just to draw his attention away from Craig. Stan was feeling almost embarrassed being so close to a boy who was openly crying. He tried to hum again, this time just to drown out the sobs. But he could still hear Craig, even from this distance.
Stan lifted himself to his feet, tugging at his jeans bashfully, and walked toward the bent over teen. "Craig?" he ventured a guess, and the boy lifted his head up at the sound of his name. His eyes were wet and beet red, his mouth open and panting. "Craig, are you okay –"
"Of course I'm fucking okay," Craig barked, wiping his nose on his arm. He broke eye contact and looked away with a sputter.
"Well, you were crying, so I just thought…."
"Who's crying?" I'm not crying." He glanced at Stan, but only for a brief second. As soon as he tasted the lies in his mouth, Craig broke away again, staring at the wall with an intense glare. "I am not crying."
"Look, if you want to talk about it –"
Craig vaulted up from the chair and grabbed Stan by the collar, pulling his close enough so that they could both feel each other's breath. "What do you know?" he shouted at Stan, his entire body quaking so much he could barely keep hold. "What do you know, huh?!"
"I know that something's the matter," Stan yelled, raising his voice to make sure that Craig could hear him over his own ravings. "What's up, dude? You can talk to me!"
Craig's eyes widened, his mouth moving as if to say something. He clamped down onto Stan's shirt one last time before letting go and falling back into his seat. Stan could tell by his vacant expression that his mind was racing. And just like that, they were once again enveloped by the solitary ticking of the wall clock.
"Craig Francis Tucker!" someone bellowed, and both boys jumped at the sound. Mr. and Mrs. Tucker barged their way ferociously into the main office, neither of them none too happy to be there. Without even skipping a beat, Craig's father grappled his son's arm and held it fast. Craig twisted and struggled, but his dad was not to be denied.
"This is the last time, you understand me?" he growled at an excessive volume.
"Suspended again, Craig?" his mother spat, maliciously. "I'm so disappointed in you."
Craig stopped fighting, his face looking as he had just been physically slapped. But, after that, he sort of… went limp. Almost like he just didn't care about fighting them anymore. He just stood there, a blank expression plastered across his visage. Motionless.
"What did we tell you, huh?" Mr. Tucker grunted, needlessly man handling the unresisting boy. "Either stay in school or out on the street. Those were ever you're only two options. You will not disgrace this family, Craig. God damn it, you will not!"
"I don't even know what I did!" Craig tried on last time. "I honestly don't remember doing anything!"
"Shut up!" both parents threatened, nearly simultaneously. "You're not going to give your father and I any more stupid excuses. You think we'll fall for that? Do you honestly think we'll fall for that, Craig?"
He didn't answer. He was limp again. His face lacked any emotion other than defeat. "I want to talk to the councilor," he whispered, low and cold, but dangerously focused. "Please. I'd really… I'd just really like to speak with the councilor."
"You will do no such thing!" Mr. Tucker blared. "We're marching you home this instant, and that is final!"
"Oh, give him a chance!"
Stan had spoken before he even realized what it was that he was saying. As Craig's mother and father glared at him, the words got caught in his throat. "I… I mean," Stan began, suddenly frightened for his own well being. "Craig… he's a good kid. You shouldn't be so hard on him. You know, stuff happens. Craig, he… he's always really funny; he lightens up the mood in class right before a big test. He always defends the little guy. He's befriended that Thomas kid, with Tourettes. I mean, you're condemning him without looking at the whole picture."
The Tucker's faces were stone. Craig looked astonished.
"Well," Stan continued, shying away. "I'm not his parents. You are. But if I were you… the least I could do for hi is let him see the councilor if he really feels he has to."
Craig's mother blinked and his father visibly swallowed his pride. He clenched his jaw and waved a single finger at his son. "Ten minutes," he said, his anger far from being doused. "Let's go."
Mrs. Tucker led the way, followed by Mr. Tucker, Craig trailing behind them. The boy turned around for a moment to look at Stan once more. He was breathing heavily, and he certainly didn't appear serene in any manner. But his eyes spoke novels. And deep within his irises, Stan could clearly read two words: "Thank you."
"Stanley Marsh." The teen scrunched up his face and turned towards Principal Victoria as she loomed in the doorway. "Could you please step into my office."
As soon as he got inside and sat down in the seat across from the Principal's desk, he discovered that he was much less intimidated than what he was before.
"Mr. Marsh, this is the sixteenth time you have been late for one of your classes, am I correct?"
"Yes, ma'am," Stan confirmed, eyeing Principal Victoria as she folded her hands deliberately over the papers scattered in front of her.
"The punishment for such an offence is equivalent to a Saturday detention, do you know that?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And just why, Mr. Marsh, have you been consistently last sixteen times within the past month alone?"
"Um," Stan searched his memory. "Mrs. Briselli needed help clearing her white board one day. And Butters had misplaced his Calculus book somewhere in the cafeteria. Then, one time, Kyle got sick in gym, so I escorted him to the nurse. And then –"
"Am I to believe that you have been arriving tardy to your classes so frequently on account that you have been aiding your fellow students between bells?"
"Well, I really wouldn't call it aid, Principal Victoria," shrugged Stan. "Like you yourself said before: I'm just a magnet for trouble. I don't ask for these things to happen around me, they just do."
Principal Victoria was scribbling something into a folder. Without looking up, she addressed her student. "I must say, Stanley, you actions are actually quite commendable. However, I will still be required to give you the Saturday. Please give this to your parents so that they are informed." With a swipe of her wrist, she ripped off a slip of paper and handed it to Stan.
"Oh, and, by the way," she said, tapping her pen on the desk in time with the ticking clock. "A strange gentleman stopped by earlier. He left you this." Principal Victoria held up a large lollypop, rainbow colored and spiraling. Stan took it from her gingerly, confused. "It's odd. I've never known the circus to advertise so personally…."
"Right," Stan mumbled, gazing at the rouge candy. He left the office, quietly shutting the door behind him. Without a second glance, he started off back to class, dropping the lollypop into the nearest garbage can with a satisfying thud.
Ike had led Stan and God directly into town. On their way there, the two riding on Ike's coat tails kept a good ten feet away the entire time, making Stan feel more like a stalker than a welcome guest. There were a few times when Ike would look back at them, his face apathetic but judgmental, subtly glaring daggers at them. God would merely flip his brown hair from his eyes and keep following, never breaking stride unless Ike did.
They passed all the usual places that Stan assumed Ike would go to for recreation: the theater, the arcade, all fast food restaurants, and candy shops. Ultimately, he just stopped wonder all together and imagined that he was back on his walk, letting his feet carry him without any inhibitions or worries. He was easily pulled from his trance when Ike ground to a halt and pivoted to face them.
"Alright," he announced, his voice low and collected, just as it had been before. "I'm here. I've arrived." Stan looked around. They weren't anywhere special – just on the corner of an avenue melding into South Park's main road, even though all the streets were eerily devoid of cars. "You can stop following me now and continue on with your lives."
"But wait," God gawked, dramatically extending his entire arm to point out an on coming stranger. "Who's that?" Stan rolled his eyes in annoyance; as if God wouldn't know. Rounding the corner was a young man, Ike's age, skinny almost to the point of anorexia. He too was wearing all black and was also wearing a daunting scowl… but it wasn't nearly as effective or convincing as Ike's was.
"Oh my God," Stan breathed, at the teen at his side blew a raspberry in his direction. "Short goth!"
"His name is Liam," Ike spat, crossing his arms over his chest. "We were to meet here and then go chill at the park. And you won't be following us there."
"Why the hell are you hanging out with this kid?" stammered Stan, inching closer in his shock. Ike was not intimidated, standing his ground even as Stan advanced, threateningly. "He's a goth! Ike, listen to me, because I know from experience, you can't get sucked into that crowd. I know you're a teenager and you feel like you have to rebel… but… don't… don't drink the Kool-Aid, dude. Don't do it."
"What are you trying to do Stan?" Ike spat, emotion creeping into his tone for the first time.
"You don't know those guys like I do!" the older boy tried to explain. "They do something to your head. They convince you to be someone different, just because! They go around smoking, drinking coffee, they don't do well in school, they run around labeling everyone conformists!"
"Would you listen to yourself?!" shouted Ike, and Stan straightened up with a start. "Those people? Rebelling? Drinking the Kool-Aid? What the fuck are you talking about Stan? You accuse me of joining a cult, deriding me and my friend on some preconceived intolerance. You say they label people, but isn't that what you're doing right now? Maybe you should practice what you preach, Stan."
Stan glanced over his shoulder, soundlessly begging God for back up. The teen just raised his eyebrows and shrugged, choosing to remain silent.
"So what if I hang out with Liam?" Ike scoffed, throwing his hands into the air for emphasis. "So what if I dress like this? That doesn't make me goth! Do you think I'm stupid, Marsh? You think I don't control my own life?" He pounded his fist into his chest passionately. "I am in control for once. Liam's my friend because he's a good guy. I dress like this because I want to. I don't hang out with the other 'goth kids,' as you call them, and I never have! You say to not be a conformist, well, I'm fucking not!"
"You're just like my brother," he continued, his volume growing as his anger blossomed. "Shoving your beliefs down my throat just because you think you're right! Well, not everyone thinks the same, Marsh! I don't label myself anything; not even Jewish, though it makes my brother crazy. I refuse to be Jewish because I refuse to fucking believe in a fucking God when there no such fucking thing! I don't want to be preppy, or goth, or Jewish, or Catholic! All I want to be is Ike! Can't I just be Ike? What's so fucking wrong with wanting to just. Be. Me!"
Ike clenched his fist at Stan to punctuate his rant. He took one deep breath… and almost instantly reverted back to his apathetic slouch. "We're going to the park," he informed, fitting his hands into his pockets. "Don't follow us."
Liam shook his head and flipped his middle finger at the two of them. "You used to be cool, man," he sneered before sprinting off to catch up with Ike.
Stan faltered in disbelief, his mouth slack jaw. He turned to look at God again, who was watching Ike disappear into the distance. When he finally noticed that Stan was glaring at him, he swallowed and bit his lip. "You want some coffee?" he asked, pointing with both hands at the café across the street. "I want some coffee. Let's go get some coffee."
"So, Stanley," God started after taking a sip of his mocha java. They were seated just outside on top of tall stools up around a small glass table. "Just why were you trying to convince Ike to not be goth? Ever wonder about that?"
Gripping his coffee mug with as much force as he dared, Stan glared at the teen across from him, finding it so much easier to let out his frustration on this particular form of God. "You tell me what I'm wondering," he said, spitefully. "Aren't you omnipotent? Why do you ask questions you should already know the answers to."
God considered this for a moment… or perhaps it was just an excuse to take an overly exaggerated sip from his latte. "Consider this, Stan," he said, putting down the mug and putting his undivided attention on Stan. "Why is it that teachers give their students exams? I mean, they already know all the answers to the test, it's no trouble for the teacher. But the reason they do it… is so that the students can learn their lesson. That's why I question you. That's why I test you. It's never for my benefit. It's to make sure that you've learned your lesson."
"Have you ever seen Groundhog Day; the one with Bill Murray in it?" God asked, sharply changing the subject and pushing his coffee mug to the edge of the table. Stan remained motionless, not even slightly amused. "Well, Bill's character, a weatherman from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, gets trapped by some unknown power on the same day, Groundhog Day, for one thousand years. That's right, he lives the same day over and over again. And at one point in the movie, he's come to the end of his rope, and he says, 'Maybe God uses tricks. Maybe he's just been around so long that he just knows everything.'"
"Why are you telling me this?" Stan questioned, finding the whole speech impossible to wrap his mind around.
"Because I gave the human race the power to think," God answered, breaking his normally cheerful persona. He actually sounded a little annoyed. "The power to question, the power to reason; a power that nothing else on this planet has. And yet it goes to waste. Believe it or not, assholes, but I'm not your fucking maid! If you make a mess, I expect you to clean it up. And yet every night, it's always the same: God, give me this… God, I want that…."
"Then just change it!" Stan hissed, not believing what he was hearing. "You're God! You can do anything. Fix it!"
God paused and lowered his head, letting a small chuckle escape from his mouth. "Now… what was it that I just got finished saying, Stanley? Just write the answers on the board? What kind of teacher would I be then?" He pushed his stool back and took to his feet, walking away. Stan cried after him.
"Convince him!" he pleaded, reaching out his hand. "You're not just a teacher. You're supposed to be our Father, right? Talk to him. Talk to him like you did me. Make… make Ike believe in you again…."
God didn't look back. He took a cigarette from out of his pocket and lit it up, smoldering embers burning an incense of tobacco into the air. "That's the concept of faith, Stan…" he mumbled, and turned the corner.
The mugs rattled as Stan hit his forehead off the small glass table. When he looked up, a piece of paper caught his attention. "Fuck no," he grumbled under his breath. "He did not just leave me with the bill!"
Dashing to his feet, Stan chased after the guy, rounding the same corner he did… running smack dab into a purple trench coat. He rubbed his dizzy head and slowly rose to his feet again, staring in a daze at the masked man in front of him. "Did you miss me that much, Alice?" the Mad Hatter gawked, playfully. "You come running to me, every time I'm near."
"O-okay," Stan drawled, his head hurting far too much over this nonsense. "So… God's a clown now?"
"Oh, Alice!" the jester laughed. He spun around in circles, his voice chiming. "I can take many forms! Many, many, many, many, many, many, many –"
"Enough!" Stan yelled, breaking the man off. "Apparently you can't take a form that isn't annoying as hell!"
"You're so hilarious," the Mad Hatter jeered, rummaging through his dark gray messenger bag. He procured a lollypop, rainbow colored and spiraling, but Stan knocked it from his hand before the man could even ask. The candy shattered on the cold concrete below, and Stan was sure that if he wasn't wearing a mask, the man's face would have looked tragically pained.
"So God's the one who keeps leaving me all that candy," Stan mused. "You've been around me that long?"
"I've always been around, Alice," the jester jeered, leaning on his cane with the elegance of a mine. "You just don't always see me. But, you're just in time!"
"Just in time?"
"To go on the hunt!" the Mad Hatter chortled, as if it were the simplest thing in the world. "To find the white rabbit, silly! We must find the white rabbit!" He skipped off, laughing all the way.
"B-but… what's the white rabbit?"
The clown halted comically mid skip, frozen in place. His porcelain mask was ever smiling a creepy smile, but his voice betrayed the guise. "I…" he started, sounding confused. "I don't know. But we must find him! We must!"
"Oh!" he exclaimed, putting his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. "There! Over there! I think I see the white rabbit! Quick, hurry, no time to lose, no time to lose at all!"
He broke off into a sprint, leaving Stan in the dust. The teen just stood there, unsure of whether or not he should follow. But if God was heading somewhere, Stan should follow, right? Right. So off he ran.
