Phone Call

Stan wasn't sure why he was even sitting here at his desk to begin with, it was ten minutes past nine and Sean had been soundlessly asleep for almost two hours now. Stan knew he should be in bed with Kyle, bringing the whole place down around them in a celebratory two-person orgy; but Kyle was alone in bed with his smaller sketch pad. So here Stan sat, at his desk because his mind was to full at the moment to even think of his love at this time. Stan would tell his former students at his old English job, that a writer never wrote his story. True it was the authors hand's that typed it out or brought it to reality but it was the story which found the author. Stan knew this because of the four stories he had written (One short novel and three short stories) never worked out like he planed; character grew and developed in way he didn't think up, they said things he never expected them to say, and something their endings didn't even match the original concept at all.

Stan was like a bridge for these tales to reach the paper or the screen as the case maybe, Stan also knew that he couldn't force the characters or plot to go in a way that would make less of a story or destroy the idea completely. This was why Stan sat at this laptop and glared at the blank word processor, because the stories were fighting but not actually passing into his mind or on to the page.

Growling in his throat, Stan closed down his blank document and opened the internet up on a whim. Bringing the Goggle search page up, Stan felt his hands begin to type in the words into the textbox (The Crestview Murder) of their own volition and entered. The slow dial-up of the shack that they had proclaimed residence whined at the amount of information that was being dragged off of the utopia of sex and porn know as the World Wide Web.

As he waited for the pages to load his hands drifted across the landscape of his desk, tracing over some old dog-eared copies of some Stephen King novels; pushing them aside Stan picked up a hardbound children's book up from the clutter. It was (And Tango Makes Three) an old one but one that Stan thought was oddly cute for Sean to pick out since it was about two gay penguins who together hatch an egg and raise a chick of their own.

This book had made its own history within their family as it was the bleakest moment of the darkest days of Stan's drinking problem. ("You son of a bitch!" Kyle's voice screamed at Stan as he pulled Sean away from his grip.)

(What had he done? One minute he goes of from his office to grab the phone from the kitchen, next he finds himself back in the study. Now in shambles, the room looks as though a small bomb had gone off in the middle; right on top of the desk. Paper everywhere and each little ink letter screamed as the drowned in the flow of beer that came from his overturned can.

See it flow, watch it go

Holding the can with both pudgy hands, Sean looked up as his Daddy and smiled. His giggling intertwined and mixed with the shrieking of his dying printed letters into a mocking choir.

Stan saw only red.

What happened next was not very clear in Stan's mind as his body stalked over to his small cherubic son. Swatting the can from Sean's tiny hands Stan gripped the boy's forearm with a vise-like clamping, Sean wriggled under the stiff hold of his Daddy. For the first time since Stan reentered the room, Sean's face grew gaunt with fear. Whipping his small body around, Stan's broad hand viscously smacked Sean's diapered bottom three time.

Ffwap!

Ffwap!

Ffwap!

As the final smack struck the bottom of Sean, his Daddy released the hold on his arm; this change of control caused his body to fling forward. This should have just made Sean fall to the floor with no injuries, just a sore butt. However, the karmatic and cruel fates decided that the new book Sean had gotten would be laying on the floor. So when his small, bare foot stepped on to it he slid forward and bashed his head on to the desk corner.

There, sitting on his sore bum, Sean began to cry big fat warm tears. Sean looked at him dumbly as though he couldn't process what was happening and what he should do, after all he was trapped behind the curtain of red. However, when the rives of blood began to roll down his son's forehead; it cleared the mental haze like a strong wind.

"Oh god Sean! Please it's all right," Stan practically begged in his slurred voice as he placed a hand on his son's shoulder, not forgetting the feeling of Sean flinching away. "Please Champ! I didn't mean it, I didn't honest."

That was when Kyle came in.)

Suddenly the computer pinged, breaking the horrid memory of the busted and alerting Stan that the search had finished. Stan whistled as he looked at the number of returns he had been given, "God damn, I guess this shit's pretty fucking popular (at least more so then clitoris)."

Chuckling softly to himself Stan clicked open the first link and was surprised by how fast it loaded up. The page was fairly boring, it was after all CNN's website, but what caused Stan to jump back in a kind of fright was the image of the prior winter caretaker. The name that had been given originally was obviously fake, whether Hannon knew or not (he probably knew exactly who he and his family were but needed the caretaker cheap or some shit) because the piercing blue eye's that stared out from the old mug shot was obviously Trent Boyette. Although his blonde hair had been clipped from a mullet to more of a comb-over to hide the receding hair line that had developed, his face still captured his hatefulness towards the world. This guy was wanted in three states for assault with a deadly weapon and one charge of attempted murder. At least as far as this article stated here.

Shutting down the monitor, Stan glared at the sticky note that hand been placed in the top right corner of the screen. Kyle had put it there for after the interview, so he could let them know he had gotten the job, but Stan's pride welled up inside his and he turned to leave the room. But before he could even get two steps from his desk, the image of Kyle's face forced him back. Roughly grabbing the note from the screen, Stan punched the number in Kyle's curvy hand writing. The phone rang, it rang again, and it rang for a third time before it turned over to a message.

"Hello," The answering machine stated in a male voice, "you reached the Cartman residence. We're not home right now, please leave a message and we'll get back to you. That is unless we don't feel like it."

Stan sighed just before the beep. "Hey Wendy, It's Stan. I decided to call and let you know that I've been given the job at Crestview as the winter caretaker. But you probably already knew that didn't you. Anyway I want to thank you and your father for pulling some strings to get me an interview, I owe you so much now."

Stan was about to hang up the plastic white connection when he muttered into it, "If you're listening to this like I know you are Fatass, you can go and suck my gay balls."