A/N: Download "Inertiatic ESP" by The Mars Volta, guys. ;3 The mood is nothing like what was intended for this, and neither are the lyrics. Yay! I wanted to write some shit about Craig's life pre-Tweek, but I kinda want this one to stand alone…CLIMAX TIME! Anyone who didn't know there would be a chapter called Blood is dumb.

It was sour. I like sour things—they're sort of snap at you, wake you up. I stood by the wall, had a short conversation with Token, Bebe, and my chaperone, who firmly insisted that I get a refill once I drained the plastic cup to its dregs.

At eleven thirty, I attempted to sidle into a less populated area of my designated wall, and barely managed to catch myself on my hands and knees on the floor. I was nauseously dizzy. I put off the effects as drunkenness over my two very low-alcohol content drinks. Clyde helped me to my feet. I have difficulty remembering things, probably wouldn't have any disjointed memory of them at all had it not so deeply impacted my life.

"Here you go." He said, almost chidingly, as I managed to get my legs beneath me. I instantly slid into him, resting my head between his neck and shoulder and not speaking. "You're sleepy, aintcha? Yeah. Let's find you a bed."

I closed my eyes and let myself be led; bumping into people and furniture as I went, and only stopped once I had been shoved back first down onto a springy mattress. Too familiar to be déjà vu.

"Craigh…" I slurred, staring up at Clyde in a way I thought was meaningful, as if he knew exactly what I was talking about.

"Craig's busy." He said, mistaking my attempt to share an anecdote as a request. He turned his back to me, eradicated the rectangle of light created by the open door, and with a loud click, I recognized the door being locked. Too inebriated to find concern, I simply rolled onto my side and closed my eyes in attempt to sleep.

There was silence for a moment. Clyde pinched my arm. I didn't care. He insisted, loudly, "Tweek." I didn't care. He pulled off his shoes using the opposite foot, and undid his belt buckle. Jeans hit the floor with a loud thump.

Gently, he lifted my hips slightly, reducing the friction of my own pants against the mattress. I was confused, tired, dizzy, and didn't quite remember why I was lying on top of the covers instead of on them, thinking I must be in Craig's house or my own. He tugged my pants down to my knees, and lay me down on my back.

--

Adequately drunk, I began my search for my Tweek, like one trying to find their coat, batting away people offering me joints or sloppy sex. Once assured that no one had seen him for a half an hour or so, I turn my search to the second story.

The upstairs was quiet. Too early for people to be searching for places to crash. I tried the first door—laundry room—second door—a slight resistance. I figured it was jammed, and threw my shoulder against it. The poorly made lock snapped.

I opened the door in a manner that cast an acute triangle of light to the direct left of the opening—just enough to peek my head through. At the first sight of a sweaty, gasping lump on Jimmy's bed, I began to close the door. However, from the lump rose a sound—it went "Nngh!" I swear to fucking God.

Downstairs, the song blared. "Now I'm lo-ost…now I'm lo-ost…"

My palms felt sopping wet. I grabbed at my ass, felt the hard, metallic lump in my pocket, and tugged it out. A box cutter, thrown in in case of a fight I didn't think I could win, a habit I'd taken on when I was roughly nine. I extended the blade as kicked the door, hard—sending it crashing into the opposite wall.

Clyde faltered, turned to face me over my shoulder, me and my fucking box cutter, and his soulless brown eyes dilated in concern for his life. He pulled out, leaving Tweek crumpled on the mattress and breathing as if he had run a marathon, half-walked half-ran to his jeans and pulled them up over his bare hipbones, shaking heavily.

"Craig." He said in a tone that suggested he wanted to reason with me. "Craig, you'll go to fucking jail, man. That's fucking assault." His fear caused him to use the most addictive of swears heavily.

I didn't care about going to fucking jail at this point.

I lunged forward, extending the weapon-wielding arm in preparation for its target, but he threw himself to the side, hitting the bed and tumbling over Tweek, who had ceased movement. He scrambled to his feet and made for the door, closer to me—I met him halfway, hitting him above his left eye.

"JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, MAN!" He shrieked, clamping his hand down over the long, thin wound extending to his skull. In his shock, I managed to get him once more—this time, in a softer area—into the ribs. At first, I hit bone, but slid the blade down, sinking it deeply into the flesh.

At this point I overpowered him, knocking him to the ground and resting over him on my knees, repeatedly stabbing him in any area that I could find, as well as the floor—it didn't matter if it was Clyde, or the carpet, or Tweek, or me, I had to rid myself of the anger, vent all of the emotions through violence, hurt, destroy….

Clyde was silent now. I sat up, still holding the blade, poised and ready for attack, but he didn't seem quite up to it. His chest rose and fell heavily. Stab wounds dotted his flesh. Blood poured down his skin and to the floor, through his clothes, in his mouth and his eyes, which had rolled into his skull.

Fuck.

The sound of the song ending soars from below us. "You'll never know…you'll never know…"

Craig takes a shallow breath, and takes no more.

I stand, look at the box cutter, and toss it aside. His last words were "Jesus fucking Christ." They run through my mind, both as a quote and as an expletive. Jesus fucking Christ, man.

I peer over at Tweek for guidance. Why did he stop moving?

Turns out he had fallen asleep before I had even made the first cut.

--

I was confused, disoriented, and falling in and out of sleep as Craig put the cold metal object into my hands, touched my fingers to its surface and rubbed the handle on my palm.

"S'…wrong?" Each word felt like lugging a boulder up a mountain. My tongue dropped to my cheek, completely at the mercy of gravity.

"Self defense." Craig's silhouette informed me gravely. He had taken off his hat to hold whatever it was he was so fascinated in, and let it drop to the ground. I closed my eyes again and fell asleep for a few seconds.

The backs of my eyelids turned white as he punched me, hard, in the face. I felt something in my nose dislodge. Wetness seeped through my nostrils. Before I could question the first, another blow hit me in the side. I gasped, and, being that my body had been threatening to do so for nearly forty-five minutes, blew chunks onto the tousled comforter.

He thoroughly pummeled me, putting his weight into every strike. Though it was difficult to hear over my sleepy panic, I thought I heard him muttering, or maybe shouting, "You fucking bitch. You little bitch!"

I don't know how much longer. I lay on the floor, naked, unable to move, be it through exhaustion, or the numbness I felt in every extremity, as Craig stood over me, making noises that were halfway between sobs and frustrated grunts. Finished meditating, he stomped over to the wall, flicked on the light, and surveyed my injuries.

"Christ, buddy. Look." He stooped, grabbed my jaw and pointed my face in the direction of something—

"You killed Clyde." He informed.

Clyde lay, dead, stained red and full of uniform, inch-long stab wounds. His eyes were wide open, rheumy with blood, and his clothes were torn. Clyde was dead. Did I kill Clyde?

"Get up."

I can't. I close my eyes tight, praying to whatever God I could think of, knowing I would be next, and I fell asleep for another few seconds. He slapped me in my raw, torn face.

"You HAVE to get up, Tweek. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Salty wetness burns as it enters my skin through the open wounds. "Look, everything will be okay. I'll protect you. I'll save you. You have to get up."

I can't. I can't even tell you that I can't.

I pass out once more. I assume he must've tried slapping me again, but I'm gone.

Here's what Craig told me to tell the police.

Clyde spiked my drink with roofies. (True.) Thinking I had passed out, he proceeded to rape me. (True.) I regained consciousness long enough to find the box cutter in the back pocket of my jeans, and proceeded to stab him. (False, that was Craig.) Angry at being stabbed, he beat the crap out of me. (False, that was Craig.) In defense, I stabbed him as many times as I could. (False, that was Craig.) By the time he stopped, he had been wounded to the point of bleeding to death. That was the point at which Craig came in, and quickly called the police.

In any other police department in America, this hole-ridden story would've been further investigated, but this was South Park. An aging Officer Barbrady saw a dead boy, a severely injured boy whose urine sample showed high doses of Flunitrazepam and asshole showed excessive abuse, and a box cutter covered in said boy's fingerprints. He put it off as self-defense and went home to eat pie.

--

A/N: Like the second week of school, in detention, I drew a pic of Craig with a box cutter, shouting "I'LL FUCKING CUT YOU, BITCH!" From then on I think of box cutters when I think of him. Nnn…it's weird to think that a story idea I had like two months ago was connected to the other chapters in this story, but this one sort of brings it all home. –shrug- Sorry to give you li'l bits of fluff and then this YAY MURDER. Poor Tweeker. Raped, sort of witnessed a murder, beaten the crap out of…too bad his night's not even over yet. ),: Tell me what you think. I'm a little self-conscience.