Chapter Track: Punkbitch – 3OH!3

Stan's head feels like it's bursting open. He clutches at it and whines, only realizing after several agonizing seconds that the reason his head is so overwrought is because the alarm on his cellphone is blaring in shrill beeps. He remembered last night to set it – someplace in between a second terrible Lifetime movie that seemed diverting when inebriated and a rerun of Law and Order: SVU, which he has become inexplicably addicted to – because he has work today, practically all day.

From where the pug is situated on Stan's stomach, Thor gives a snort of surprise when Stan shifts to his side to turn off the earsplitting noise. Looks like he fell asleep on the couch again. Sure enough, another cop show is playing on the television in front of him, on mute. He scratches Thor behind the ears, thanking God that yesterday he remembered to close the curtains over the window that faces east.

"Sorry, bud," Stan mutters, and even talking so little is too much for him. He groans as he pulls himself out from under his pug and Lucy – who decided sometime during the night that Stan's legs looked like a good place to sleep. Must he always wake up under a pile of dogs?

He massages his temples and opens the sliding glass door to his square of back yard. Most of the yards up in South Park aren't fenced off, but he paid to have his done so that his dogs would be safe when he let them out. While he is certain Daisy could handle herself, she's a big dog and tough shit (he had adopted her after no one would – she had come to the shelter from an abusive household, and was and remains hostile to everybody that wasn't him), but Thor and Lucy, if let out into the wild of the Rockies, would probably a) get lost or b) get eaten.

The sun is only barely peeking up from behind the ridge of mountains, but the light is too much. Stan covers his eyes and holds his head, hissing in pain while he ushers his dogs outside to do their business. He brews a pot of Folgers. If he wasn't so hungover, he'd probably laugh about how pissed Tweek would be that Stan was using Folgers again. When the guy moved in next door, he'd given Stan an assortment of expensive coffee beans. They'd been good, for sure, but Stan is way, way too lazy to go out of his way to buy more nice coffee. While he waits for it to brew, he swishes back four ibuprofen with a Tupperware cup of lukewarm tap water.

Fuck, mornings suck.

His only consolation is that he will mostly be working with animals, today. Typically he has one of his assistants talk to people. He fucking hates people – in the morning, mostly. He probably won't be able to hide this hangover. It's fucking terrible. He hasn't had one so bad in a long ass time, but then he realizes that he didn't have reasons quite as good as Kyle Broflovski being back in town to drink the night away. And the afternoon. And whenever, really.

Shit.

Stan's in bad shape. He knows that. He doesn't want to know that. He wants to be blissfully unaware, but fucking Kyle makes him so aware, aware of himself and of his life and every pathetic thing around him. He wants to come up with somebody whose life sucks more than his, and he thinks, at least I didn't get a one night stand pregnant – but Kenny is super happy all the fucking time like the little shit that he is, and Wendy is gorgeous, always has been, and she's freed him from any sort of responsibility relating to the pregnancy. And for whatever reason, that pisses Kenny off.

Everybody has somebody but him, it seems.

And now Kenny is more responsible than his deadbeat ass. When the fuck did that happen? Sometime in the last four years, he guesses. Why didn't he notice?

Not too long ago, on a day as bad as this, he'd just go for drinks with his dad. But, since his parents separated (permanently, this time), Randy moved not only out of South Park, but out of Colorado, and to LA. There, he is apparently enjoying the good life in a tiny, shitty-ass apartment, with a girlfriend that has ridiculously bright blond hair and favors blue eyeshadow. She seems like an okay lady, Stan thinks. She's never been nothing but nice to him, but she also seems to be clinging on to her youth. Her youth definitely does not exist anymore.

Not that he had any room to talk about clinging onto the past.

Fuck.

Stan tries not to look at himself as he undresses for his shower, but he catches glimpses of his sunken eyes and his greasy hair and his fucked-up posture from falling asleep on the couch so much. He looks like shit. He's probably never looked worse in his life. Meanwhile, Kyle college-asshole-graduate Broflovski looks perfect. Well groomed son of a bitch. Stan's blood boils at the thought of how fucking good Kyle looked yesterday. Stan shouldn't have kidded himself into thinking that he'd be actually missed by somebody. What a joke. He didn't matter to Kyle, he hadn't in a long time. He needed to stop confusing fantasy with reality.

The spray of hot water from the showerhead is soothing. Stan leans his forehead against the tile wall and rubs his eyes.

Awesome. Hungover crying in the shower. Just when he thinks that he's reached his lowest point, he discovers that there is no low that is low enough for pathetic Stan Marsh. Shit, he is a waste of space.

Stan knows that he has to put on the pretense of being put-together at work, even if his coworkers all know the truth. He just can't look like as much of a wreck as he feels like. As much of a wreck as he is. He shampoos and conditions and shaves – managing to do so while only cutting himself twice, a brilliant record for being in such a crap state.

Stan's work slacks are a little wrinkled, but he's afraid if he takes out his iron that he'll burn himself. This hangover is making him retarded. He's just slow, and his brain feels all sticky and throbbing, and like it's banging around in his skull. He decides to just go with it. Nobody will notice that they're wrinkled if they're black, right? He has the same dilemma with his button-ups that he should wear, so he digs a polo out of the darkest depths of his closet. The fit is a little tight. He doesn't think he's worn a polo since he was like…fifteen. But he'll have a lab coat over it, so hopefully nobody will see that it's a bit…snug.

Stan lets his dogs back in after he fills their bowls with kibble and refills the water dish. The dogs are far more enthusiastic about their breakfasts than he is about his own – Folgers and Captain Crunch. He sips at the crappy coffee as he goes out the front for the newspaper.

There's a crunch when he lands on his front step.

Stan looks down.

"What the fuck?" he mutters. It's a fucking bag of Doritos. He stoops to pick it up, squinting at the strangely neat script across the front of it.

I'm sorry.

What an asshole.

Okay, sure, they're Stan's favorite kind of chips. Yes, awesome, Kyle can remember some insignificant detail about him. Who does that little shit think he is? What a way to apologize to him for the last four fucking years. For the last eight years, now that he thinks about it. He takes a swig of his coffee like it's alcohol, because he forgets that he didn't have alcohol in his hand. He ends up with a burnt tongue and grunts in frustration.

When Stan ducks down to grab the newspaper, he sees a second bag where the Doritos were.

A bag of dog treats.

Kenny must have told Kyle about the dogs.

The second gift is slightly better than the first, but this still pisses Stan off beyond belief.

In the end, he forgets getting the newspaper completely, tossing the bag of Cool Ranch Doritos into his snack cabinet and feeding the treats to his dogs while he tries to swallow soggy spoonfuls of cereal.

When Stan arrives at work, Heidi greets him brightly. Too brightly, in his opinion, for this hour of the morning.

They never get much traffic in the shelter. Usually, Stan is mostly on call to go out and see the animals at the outlying farms. Most people up in the mountains don't keep house pets. There is an actual danger of them being attacked and eaten, and that deters greater portion of the community. The only people around South Park that he knows keep pets are Craig – who owns a pair of guinea pigs, and Heidi – who has a couple of cats. He seems to recall Kenny saying at one point that he wanted to get a parrot, but Stan thinks he was joking, because Kenny just talked about how he wanted to teach it to greet people by saying "Hey, bitch!"

He supposes the lack of traffic is the reason why Butters arrives at noon, without having made an appointment, with a whining kitten in his arms.

Stan raises his brows when Butters looks down at the cat and scolds, "Mr. Kitty, you shush, now. You know Eric doesn't like your meowing," when Butters blinks back up, he spots Stan and greets merrily, "Hey there, Stan! I brought Mr. Kitty in to get him some shots."

Stan must have made a face, because Butter's cheerfulness dims a bit and he asks timidly, "That's okay, right? You're not too busy, are you?"

"Of course not, Butters," Stan says tiredly. He brings Butters and Mr. Kitty back to the only exam room in the entire office. The grey kitten is a little loud. He wonders if Cartman goes out of his way to find loud cats to yell at.

"He's in good shape, it looks like," Stan says, as he checks the kitten's ears, "Where'd you get him?"

"Oh, Eric and I got him from a breeder down in Littleton. Very nice lady," Butters says, "Uh, Stan? Can I ask you something?"

"Sure, dude," replies Stan, thinking Butters wants to know how much the vaccines will cost for his cat, or want to know what a good kibble to buy is – something like that.

But Butters goes in a completely different direction, "I hope you don't mind me askin', but, uh, Stan, a-are you okay?"

Stan stares for a second and responds, "I'm fine, Butters."

"It's just that with Kyle back in town, I was thinkin' that –"

"Kyle has nothing to do with me," Stan says, voice flat. He and Kyle haven't been friends for eight fucking years. How does everybody in South Park still associate them with each other? Fucking hell.

And like that, a sudden wave of illness swamps over him. Stan feels a horrible twist in his stomach, and mumbles, "Excuse me. I'll be right back."

Stan only just makes it to the bathroom in time to get his head in the toilet bowl. He still doesn't feel better after vomiting once, and he throws up again, the second time more sour and watery and stinging as it comes up from his throat. Shit. He's in no condition to work. He should be back at home nursing this hangover. Fucking hell.

As he's spitting into the toilet water, he feels a hand rest on his shoulder. It's Butters – with the kitten squirming in his other arm and mewling its rage at being held in such a way. Butters hushes the thing and says, "Mr. Kitty and I can come back another day. I think you should go home, mister."

"Fuck off," Stan manages weakly, resting his head on the rim of the toilet bowl.

Butters frowns deeply at his hostility. He says, "N-now Stan, that's no way to talk to people. We love you, you know. Why, you're one of my favorite people in South Park. It kills me to see you like this. I wish you'd get better."

"You are a presumptuous little shit, you know that?" Stan's voice echoes against the toilet. He's humiliated, to be honest. What fucking luck. He couldn't have vomited before Butters came in? For Christ's sake, it feels like the universe is just taking a shit on him for kicks. Now Butters will probably go back home to his husband and tell fucking Cartman about everything. And once Cartman knows, everybody will know. Stan already gets enough disapproving looks from the townspeople as it is. Even asshole Craig gave him the look yesterday, when the bastard should have been delighted at Stan's patronage to the liquor store that employed him. What a dick.

Because Butters stays quiet, just rubbing Stan's back with his free hand, Stan spits out, "You never gave a fuck in high school, why do you care so much now?" He didn't add that he didn't think that anybody should care about him, that they would be wasting their time on a worthless shit like him.

"Oh, uh, I've always cared, Stan," Butters says, and he sounds sincere. Butters' honesty pisses Stan off all the more as the guy keeps talking, "People didn't pay much attention to me then, either. I had, uh, l-lots of problems with my parents, you know, and with Eric n' me fightin' all the time…high school was tough times for all of us. But I promise I cared about you. I still do. Really."

Butters always manages to make Stan feel like an asshole. Butters' lectures aren't like lectures from Kenny. In high school, Kenny used to get trashed right along with Stan, though by the time they graduated, his enthusiasm for drinking and drugs seemed to have waned for whatever reason. Nonetheless, the facts were facts, and Kenny has no room to harangue Stan on his drinking habits. Even now, Kenny remains a bit of a lush, though nothing like his old teenaged self.

But Butters. Fucking Butters. Butters puts up with so much bullshit. He did back in high school, too. Butters probably had it worse off than anybody, Stan included, and he managed to push through it all with his dopey smile still on his face. For fuck's sake, in their junior year, Butters had ended up at Hell's Pass for a couple weeks because his dad had beaten the shit out of him so bad. And he's still chipper as fuck.

"I hate you," Stan groans. He pushes himself back onto his feet and stumbles over to the paper towel dispenser, where he wipes the bile off of his lips. He splashes a little water onto his face. He still looks like shit. Maybe even worse than he did when he left his house that morning. But, he does feel a lot better now that he's barfed.

Butters is smiling when he turns around, and he says to Stan, "I love you, too."

Once Stan has managed to sober up to a level acceptable to Butters, they return to the exam room and he gives the new Mr. Kitty standard vaccines – FRVCP and rabies. He doesn't think the kitten needs anything other than the core medication. The cat must have come from a reputable breeder, though he supposes that Cartman wouldn't have gone for anything but the best.

He feels shockingly high-spirited (by that, he means he's neutral – a rare occurrence indeed. Typically Stan finds himself either enraged at the world, absolutely despondent, or mulling over the fact that he's a shitstain on the planet's underwear) after Butters visit. For some reason, that guy just has a happy effect on the people around him. It's nice to have that for a little bit, because the rest of Stan's workday goes to absolute and complete shit.

He hates when he has to put down animals. He'll only ever do it as a last resort. Unfortunately, a lot of people are fucking stupid and won't call him up when signs of sickness first start to show. He's never been like that with his own animals. As soon as any of them showed the remotest sign of being uncomfortable, he will check them out and get them what they need. He doesn't think of it as overreaction, he thinks of it as loving the fuck out of his dogs. They were, after all, his only friends around here.

But today, man, fuck today.

Stan has to put down a calf, because the fucking assholes taking care of him didn't think to call him up as soon as the little guy started to look bad. Idiots. If anyone should know that the babies are more susceptible to internal worms, it should be cattle farmers. And then, when he arrives back at the office, somebody's brought in a dog with a bite from what Stan guesses has to have been a mountain lion. If he'd gotten back like fifteen fucking minutes sooner, he might have been able to save it.

Jesus, some days, he hates his job. Today is one of those days. He even stows himself in his office and locks the door so he can have a moment alone with his flask. He knows he shouldn't be drinking on the job. It's irresponsible, whatever. But his shift is already almost over and he's itching to get out of town. Stan feels suffocated. Maybe it's because of his terrible day, or maybe it's because of his proximity to Kyle. Whichever it is, it doesn't quite matter, because by seven in the evening, Stan has already resolved that he will be driving down to Denver to have himself an actual night. It's Saturday. He should be able to do whatever the fuck he wants.

Stan ever gussies up a little after he's let his dogs out. He puts mousse in his hair (he didn't even know he owns mousse. He assumes that it must be something that his mom or Shelly got him for Christmas or something. Does mousse expire? If it does, this mousse is probably expired), pulls on a douchey-looking black v-neck and some jeans that don't have holes in them, and spritzes cologne onto himself (he also didn't realize he owns cologne).

The drive to Denver is about two hours, give or take a few minutes – but it's also an attractive drive. And fortunately, it won't be dark until like nine, since it's mid-June and it almost never seems to be dark. At least, that's what it feels like when you're hungover.

Denver is actually sometimes overwhelming for Stan. Intuitively, he knows that it isn't a very large city, at least compared to a place like New York City or Los Angeles (the latter of which he hates - mostly because of the crush of people and the fucking traffic, how do Californians survive? - but he'll visit because his dad acts like Stan has mortally wounded him if he doesn't visit at least once a year). But he is, and always has been, a small town kid. No matter how much weird shit goes down in South Park, the oddest feeling to Stan is being in a brightly lit, well-populated city. Saturday nights are especially intimidating, with all the people roaming around drunk in sequined outfits or suits, or just plain old guys with their hats tipped to the side, like assholes. There are always the hipsters, too. Stan tends to avoid their hangouts, though when he thinks on it, Kyle looks a bit hipster-esque. Probably an aftereffect of going to a fancy college.

What a dick.

Stan's favorite club is actually on the outskirts of Denver, kind of in one of the sketchy, industrial-looking areas. It's called Tracks – and while hella sketch on the outside, it's awesome on the inside. It's fucking fun, too, because it's queer friendly, and there, it seems like people don't have any inhibitions. He never would have found it without Kenny, though. Kenny always attempts to get him out, and Stan seldom does of his volition. Tonight's an exception. Tonight, he has a shitload of things running through his mind that he just wants to forget. He wants to forget his awful day at work, to begin with. He wants to forget Kyle Broflovski. And Goddamnit, he wants to forget high school.

Because, fuck. Just, fuck.

Before Kyle's return, high school was neatly tucked behind him. But every time Stan sees Kyle's face, he remembers every hurt, every snub, every drink he had, every time he broke down because he missed his super best friend, every last asshole moment he indulged in. It's humiliating.

He downs the remainder of the contents of his flask after he's parked his car in the lot behind Tracks. Stan wants to have loosened up before he goes in there. He wants to prove to himself that he isn't hung up on some long-dead super best friendship. He wants to prove to himself that he can live his life without the assholes up in South Park. He can find an attractive guy on his own. He's done it by himself before.

…Once.

Usually Kenny helps him.

But he'll do it by himself again tonight.

Fuck you, Kyle. Other people like me. I don't need your half-assed shitty apologies on Dorito bags. I don't need you at all.

Stan tosses the empty flask on the passenger seat of his Ford, takes in a shuddering breath, and stalks toward the club.

Inside, it feels like the swarm of people is at like, ten million, even though it's barely past ten at night. The thick beat of the music makes his head go all swimmy when it's combined with strobe lights. The thick of gyrating bodies on the dance floor is still intimidating – he makes a beeline for the bar, first. He has to drink his way into confidence. He doesn't have confidence for real, not anymore. It's in him in tiny reserves, reserves that are tapped only when somebody has supremely pissed him off. Like Kyle, yesterday. For instance.

Fuck.

Gotta stop thinking of Kyle.

Stop stop stop.

Stan orders a shot of vodka and tips it back. He eyes a couple of the other people at the bar. There's a pair of girls dressed up in raver gear. There's a scene he'll never understand, though Kenny briefly got into the rave scene when he was around fifteen. Stan thinks. His timelines always seem too fuzzy and fucked up, but he seems to recall Kenny owning a pair of fuzzy orange leg warmers and shit ton of multicolored beaded bracelets.

He orders another shot.

Stan's eyes land on a guy in light-colored muscle shirt and jeans. He looks nice and unassuming, the type that Stan tends to go for. That's not what draws Stan to the guy, though. No, it's the fact that this man has red hair. It isn't curly, like Kyle's, it's short and spiky. But that's good enough for Stan. By the time he's ready to go and talk or dance or whatever with this guy, he's downed his sixth shot.

"Hey," he says, and he thinks he's probably slurring.

The guy looks him up and down and replies with a, "Hey," back. He sounds about as fucked up as Stan is, and now that he's close, he can smell the weed radiating off of the guy.

Stan gives the guy what feels like a charming smile, but it reality is a drunken attempt at flirtation. It wouldn't work on somebody sober, somebody sober probably would have slapped Stan across the face by now. His hands reach forward and he pulls the guy onto the dance floor just as the song changes to something by 3OH!3. The obligatory one or two people hoot or bark out, "THREE OH THREE!" and hold up their hands in the band's symbol. Stan's guilty of doing that himself once or twice, he has to admit. It's fun to have a band from Colorado and feel like it gives your state some street cred (Even though Stan thinks the Flobots are better).

Stan grinds himself against the redheaded guy. They don't even know each other's names. That's fine. He's perfectly content with pretending that this guy is Kyle Broflovski, even though Kyle is taller and more slender and wouldn't ever wear an ugly muscle shirt. Stan doesn't think that he's been this physically close to another human being for months. The last time Kenny took Stan out on the town was back in March, before the whole Wendy chaos began. And even then, Stan tended to stand on the outskirts, watching other people enjoy themselves and drinking himself into a stupor.

He's getting kind of horny being so close to another guy. One that looks like Kyle, anyway. His breath starts coming out in pants. He's pressed up against so many people, and he's sweating like crazy, sweating everywhere. It's dripping down his forehead and past his lips. He can taste it. Salt on top of the sour aftertaste of too much alcohol.

Abruptly, he's torn from his position behind this guy, and thrown back onto the dance floor. He lands on his back. At first nobody notices. They're too into the music and the moment, and they step on Stan's arms and clothes. But then the same redheaded guy is standing right above him, at least, he thinks so – and he says, "Hey, what the fuck, pervert?"

Stan doesn't know what he's talking about until he notices the category five erection tenting his nice jeans. Sweet. He just pushed his boner up against some anonymous guy's ass. If that's not embarrassing, Stan doesn't know what is.

"Sooo-rrrryy, Kyle," Stan slurs out. His head kind of hurts. Some girl with pigtails in her hair offers him a hand to help him up, but the redheaded guy shoves her to the side.

And he punches Stan in the face.

"What the fuck?" Stan manages. He scoots back on his ass, away from the dude, but the crowd is too thick. He just ends up with somebody's white platform boots kicking him in the head, and a couple of panty-shots he could have done without. He wobbles as he stands, and glares at the nameless guy, his replacement Kyle, holding out his arms and saying, "Hey, you want go, asshole? Right here, buddy." He sounds eerily like his dad, but he's too drunk to really notice.

The guy delivers a second punch directly to Stan's face.

This time, the crowd notices. Somebody gives a yelp of surprise – probably the tall guy in the purple skirt that Stan just fell back into – and others give a collective gasp. Somebody yells, "Fight!"

Stan pitches his first forward, connecting with the guy's gut. The dude falls to the ground just like Stan had before, except that people clear out so that he'll fall without being stomped on.

That's when reality blurs. What Stan sees is Kyle on the ground, that stupid bastard. The dickface that made every waking moment of his teenage years absolutely miserable. The one that was Stan's super best friend one day, and the asshole that didn't give two shits about him the next. An angry half-roar tears out of Stan's throat, and he dives forward, tackling replacement-Kyle to the dance floor again as he attempts to get back onto his feet.

"Fuck you!" Stan shouts, a fist smashing into the face of replacement-Kyle. He can't stop his fists from flying after that. He's angry, so angry, and all he wants to do is see this guy dead. Fucking dead.

"I kept trying, and I kept trying, but you never cared," Stan cries out. He's sobbing now. That's unfortunate. He's always been a bit of crier when he's drunk, but it's about ten times as bad when he's drunk and Kyle is on his mind at the same time.

"What the fuck are you talking about?" gargles replacement-Kyle, as blood faucets out of his nose and over his mouth. Stan hopes he broke that nose. Kyle deserves it, after everything he put Stan through. Replacement-Kyle tries to no avail to shove Stan off of him and protests, "Dude, you're fucking nuts, you crazy shit!"

Stan punches replacement-Kyle again. And again. He weeps, "You. Asshole. Get out of my head. Get out of my head."

It's then that Stan is picked up off of replacement-Kyle. He stumbles with the two security guards whose arms are securing him on either side. His world doubles and triples. He's bleeding, too. Replacement-Kyle got a couple of good punches in before Stan lost it.

He's crying.

And he's bleeding.

And he can't see straight.

And instead of tonight erasing Kyle from his mind, everything just reminds him of Kyle. Red haired guys. The color green. Song lyrics. Every little thing is a Kyle thing.

"Get outta here," says one of the security guys, as they toss him onto the sidewalk outside.

The other one seems a little more kind than his coworker. He suggests, "You might want to call a friend to come pick you up, buddy. You're wasted out of your mind." He gives Stan that irritating as fuck parental look of disapproval and a firm pat on the shoulder, which causes Stan to wobble a bit on his feet and the dimly lit street to double.

He stumbles around the building, toward his car. The security guy is right, he thinks. He's so fucked up right now. He thinks he's bled into his own eyes, or maybe he got replacement-Kyle's blood into his eyes, he can't tell. This is fucking mortifying.

"Hey man, you alright?" a stoner asks as he passes him on the way to his Ford. Stan turns his head and the guy goes, "Whoa. Bro, you look like you got hit by a truck."

Stan feels like he's been hit by a truck. His head feels like lead, like it's way too heavy for his body. He finds his Ford, but he doesn't think he should get in yet. No, he trips over his shoes and falls to his hands and knees on the asphalt. He heaves up the contents of his stomach. Which, admittedly, are mostly alcohol. He didn't eat much today, when he thinks on it. He had a sandwich for lunch at work, and ate like a handful of Kyle's crappy-apology Doritos and a couple of breath mints before he left on the drive to Denver. The vomit is all watery and his mouth tastes like shit. He should be used to that taste by now. Vomiting is not an uncommon occurrence in his life.

He throws up again.

Fuck.

He needs to call somebody.

The only person that comes to mind is Kenny.

With more effort than it should have taken, Stan fishes his cellphone out of the back pocket of his jeans. His eyes are blurry from blood and tears and his intoxication as he scrolls through the contacts. He presses 'Kenny cell' but Kenny's phone must be off, because it goes straight to voicemail: 'Hey fuckers, you've reached Kenny McCormick. Actually, you haven't, which is why you're getting this message. Leave me a message and I'll give your ass a call back.'

Stan clicks the end button instead of leaving a message, he'll just try Kenny's home phone. He doesn't know why anybody has a home phone anymore, the concept seems a little antiquated to him.

Kenny's home telephone rings three, four, five times, before it clicks, and somebody picks up.

Stan instantly starts talking, "Duuude. Please. Gotta come get me. I'm like, in Denver, and I'm reeeally shitfaced. If I drive I'll like, kill something. Or something. Ughhh –" Stan throws up again. He feels like he should be even more embarrassed, but it's just Kenny that he's talking to, and the sound of Stan vomiting will just solidify his point about needing to hitch a ride back up to South Park.

"Stan? Is that you?"

Stan looks in horror at his phone.

That voice most definitely does not belong to Kenny McCormick.

o.o.o.o

Hey all! A great big thank you and some internet gift baskets for my sweet-ass reviewers: Chasing Rabbits, Bubble3wrapguy, conversefreak3, WxTxR, Mallory, KirstenTheDestroyer, Red Shiloh, CanIsay, VannaUsagi13, Reverse Psychology, Miroir Twin, ObanesHarvest, and TheAwesome15.

You guys are fantastic, I actually need a lot of encouragement with this fic right now, and your support really helps. Which reminds me, thank you to all my fic-lurkers as well. I know you're out there. ;D

Also, fun side note: My grandparents live about 45 minutes away from South Park, and your house pet really will get eaten up in the mountains. My uncle's cat got eaten by a mountain lion. SO. Trufax and shit.