Perchance to Dream

Disclaimer: See prologue

Summary: Stan has a talk with Randy.

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At Home II

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The two weeks following the incident at Jumpin' Java were fairly uneventful. I got handed a three day suspension for the incident after detention, and spent it at work, allowing me to have the weekend off. I spent my weekend moping around in my room, working on scholarship applications. I had won an academic excellence scholarship to Colorado, but that along with my federal grants would pretty much cover just tuition. I would need additional scholarships to cover room and board, books, and a meal plan. Another five grand that I would need to acquire through some sort of means, and scholarships would definitely be preferable to running up a $20,000 or so loan debt before I leave college.

I wrote out fifteen applications, paired them up with fifteen letters of recommendation from one of my teachers, and mailed them off. The rest of the weekend had been spent watching my face peel. I'm looking more-or-less normal again, a little bit more than less. I've been handling myself at work, and Greg's been making excuses to serve Cartman on those rare occasions he drops by.

You would probably think that after what I did to Fatass, people would be congratulating me at school for finally "growing a pair" and doing what should have been done to him years ago. Instead, things went back to normal. I walked through the halls on pins and needles on my first day back from suspension, but nobody even looked twice at me. Nobody said a word to me. I sat in the very back of all my classes and was ignored by my teachers. Nobody disturbed my passage through the lunch line, or my trip to the outskirts of the cafeteria to eat my meal in my little dark corner.

It was both relieving and disconcerting. And, why I'm hesitantly looking into the living room from the midway point on the stairs. Dad's sitting in his chair, and I'm hoping he can give me some advice, maybe, on how to deal with this pressure of having no fucking clue when your next beating is coming or where it's coming from. This pressure that comes from being the center of attention for a week and then ignored like the elephant in the middle of the living room within three days.

"Dad?" I ask hesitantly, coming down the rest of the stairs and entering the living room proper.

"What is it, Stanley?" Dad asks, muting the TV.

"I'm like…under some stress, and I was wondering if you had any ideas."

"Oh. Sit down, Stanley," Dad says, and I take a seat on the couch.

"What's the matter, son?"

"You remember a couple weeks ago? Where I-"

"Where you got your face scalded by that fat asshole you used to be friends with?" Dad asks.

"Uhh, yeah, that," I say, kinda uncomfortable.

"Yeah, what about it?"

"Well, I beat the living shit out of Cartman," I say, before being interrupted again.

"Good for you."

"Thanks, but…I mean, they've beaten me worse for much less, and they've totally ignored me for this. I'm worried about when and where they're going to get me back."

"…And this is stressful to you?" Oh, for fuck's sake, Dad!

"…Yeah? I mean, I'm already accepted to college, I'm a lock for at least half the scholarships I applied for, work's fine, just…this."

"Stanley, you truly don't know the half of it when it comes to stress. I was in a boy band, remember? One of the most stressful professions known to mankind. With all the memorizing of the songs, the choreography, the grueling rehearsals, recording sessions that could last 36 hours, and don't even get me STARTED on the fangirls…" he says.

"…So you were in a boy band, and it was stressful. That means you can give me some advice, right?" I ask, hopefully.

"You're 18, right, Stanley?" he asks, and I'm caught off-guard momentarily.

"Y-yeah, I turned in October, remember?"

"Alright then, just checking. Stan, the best way to deal with your type of situation is by utilizing substances designed with the express intent of suppressing negative emotions and promoting a mellow feeling." Jesus Christ, he's not suggesting what I think he's suggesting, is he?

"Dad? Are you…suggesting I start taking drugs?"

"Drugs? No…well, they'd be best, but there isn't anything close to a steady supply around here. Not much LSD in the world after San Francisco got destroyed, and all the wetbacks down by the U-haul are clean. There used to be a good supply of Mary Jane down in the ghetto, but that fire that gutted the place last year took it all out, so you'll have to resort to the two classics: alcohol and nicotine."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" I ask, staring at him as he offers me a plastic bag containing a fake ID (thankfully not as bad as identifying me as McLovin, a 25-year-old Hawaiian organ donor), a can of Coor's Light, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter.

"I've had this ready for you for the past two years. I must say, I'm amazed at your ability to handle bad situations like ours."

"Dad…seriously. I don't think I should be smoking or drinking…I mean, the last time I smoked, I burnt down the school…"

"Stanley, it's all in the past. If you want to reduce your fucking stress quickly, you'll take this, say 'Thanks, Dad,' and go to your room. If not, just walk away, Stan."

Sighing, I take the bag. "Goddamnit," I say, standing up. "Thanks for the 'advice,' Dad…"

"You're welcome, son. Anytime." And then the man un-mutes the TV and laughs outrageously at a lame joke on the old-time TV shows channel. I look with apprehension at the contents of the bag in my hand and trudge up the stairs to my room, where I lock the door.

To be careful, I go over to my bed and crack the window. I don't have an ashtray, so I'll have to tap the excess out the window tonight, but tomorrow I'll nick a can from the recycling and use that.

Remembering the Rob Reiner incident back in fourth grade, I cautiously test the lighter a couple times, producing sparks at first until the butane catches and produces a flame. I take a cigarette from the pack, stick the proper end in my mouth, strike the lighter again, and touch it to the end of the cigarette. The cigarette couldn't be happier to burn, and the nicotine and tar and carcinogens and hallucinogens contained within it couldn't be happier to make their way into my body. I take a couple cautious puffs, to be certain I'm doing it right, and then a long drag. I feel warmer, instantly, then cold again as I exhale.

"Hidey lidey lidey, hidey lidey lay," I murmur to myself, sitting down on my bed and tapping a particularly long ashen section of the cigarette out the window. "So folks can get a breaky from their stressful lidey lives and relaxy with the cigarettes …" I sing, in tune with the song sung by the workers at the factory I visited with my old friends, the ghetto boy, the kike, and the lardass.

Humming it to myself, I continue to puff away on the cigarette, the resulting smoke flying out my window alongside the ashes from the used-up parts of the mini-cigar as I finish it. When I do, I fling the butt out the window and close it, walking over to the plastic bag and taking out the Coor's Light. Nicotine is something I've been exposed to before first hand. Alcohol, on the other hand, is something I've never had in large quantities. I have an ounce of wine when I take Communion, but I've never had a beer before. Mom has been insistent on that. She won't even let Dad make beer-battered chicken or fish for dinner.

Cautiously, I pop the tab on the can and take a drink. It tastes…funny. Kind of like drinking plain carbonated water when the soda machine at the restaurant is out of Sprite but you can't really tell so you fill up your glass anyway and do a spit take when you take a sip of it and there's no way in fucking hell it's actually Sprite. That's sort of like what this tastes like. Except it's a little sweeter than carbonated water. There aren't really any words to properly describe what it tastes like.

I've had Health in High School. I got the spiel about why you should neverever smoke, neverever drink, neverever shoot heroin, neverever do meth, or cocaine, or LSD, or marijuana, or fuck someone who you don't fuck regularly, don't use prostitutes, or "escort services," don't have a wide stance, don't be a fatass, cheezburgahs are bad, so are cookies, cake, potato chips, Pepsi, Coke, roundhouse kicks to the face, standing downwind of Terrance and Phillip, Mexicans, hoboes, Communists, Chinese Dodgeball players, and dogshit tacos. Like any good teenager, I drowned out the teacher, nodded my head and said yes. I didn't PLAN on smoking or drinking…but I think they may come in handy.

Smoking made me warm. Drinking…well, drinking's kinda making me light-headed. But I assume this just because I've never had any before. With time, I'll get better at it. Maybe I'll be able to do kegstands eventually. Or Beer Pong. Or drinking games, like "Every time Mackey says M'kay, take a drink." Yeah…with time and tolerance, I'll be able to hold my liquor. But to do that, I'll have to get my hands on a lot more of this stuff. I'd be able to buy cigarettes on my own, but for alcohol…yeah, I guess that's why Dad made me this fake ID. It's pretty damn good, too. I wonder who he knows at the DMV…

Of course, I guess it's just in case. If I asked nicely enough, the guys at the liquor store would probably sell me stuff. I could just tell 'em it was for my Dad and they'd give it to me, sure as hell. The bartender would take a little work and "pliance" in the form of twenty bucks or so, but he'd probably serve me too. They all know I'm a mature kid who's going through a rough patch in his life. I look like I'm 21 anyway. When I go to Denver to watch the Rockies (once a summer, and I pinch pennies for two months to do THAT), the concessions people all look at me like I'm a crazy Mormon because I only ask for Coke instead of beer, because they think I'm 21.

So…hmm…tomorrow's an early release day from school. I'll get out at 1, and I'm only scheduled to work until 4, because Greg has an exam in this night class he's taking, so I'll have plenty of time to head down to the liquor store, pick up some cigarettes and beer. I'll have to dip into my Christmas fund to do it, but I'll just get Mom some aromatherapy candles and Dad some retarded print socks. Ten bucks, and I'm good to go as far as parents are concerned. Shelley will get a small bag of caramels, because she's been fucking addicted to the damn things ever since she got her braces off. Something about being "determined to make up for all my lost childhood." Whatever. So that's another three bucks, and I'll use the other thirty-seven in my holiday savings to feed my new addictions.

I don't care WHAT Lardass and the Kike say, I'm a fucking genius. And with 10-minute breaks between classes, I'll even have time to light up at school should the need arise. I'll just be careful not to throw the damn thing into a dumpster this time. Spiking it into the snow ought to suffice for extinguishing it, if I'm in danger of being caught. I'll go for a smoke break once in a while, and carry a small can of body spray along with me to mask the scent. I'll get some really pungent AXE to piss them all off, especially the Jew. Jewboy HATES AXE, especially the Essence blend. I can't use TAG, because then I'll be inundated with hot chicks, and that'll defeat the purpose of relieving stress. Instead, I'd have more, because I'd have to worry about all the jocks beating on me for "lookin' at their wimmin funny."

Fucking morons.

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Notes: There you go. This chapter took me five days of half-effort to produce, and I didn't even have any inspiration on what to do with it until I remembered the episode "Butt Out" and was able to get my hands on the transcript for it. Once I got that, this afternoon, I was able to go from 996 words to about 2k in a little over an hour.

Anyway, there was a slight regression from the nine the chapter before last, but the five I got was still a pretty acceptable count. We can keep it up, yes?

Next chapter, we'll see Stanley at school again. Hopefully, that one will be up by New Years. Next week's going to be just a TINY bit hectic for me, as you might be able to imagine.

Merry Christmas/Kwanzaa/whatever,

Phoenix II