Warning: This chapter may be a bit more "blue" than others.

A few days later, Craig and Tweek were on the set of their new show at Comedy Central, ready to start rehearsals.

And, as usual, Tweek was in a panic. Craig was usually the one to calm down Tweek, but he was too busy to even humor Tweek's worries.

"Craig," Tweek yelled out, even though Craig was right next to him.

"What is it, Tweek," Craig asked, "Things are kinda hectic right now."

"I'm worried that I might forget my lines while we're out there," Tweek feared.

"You can't forget lines that weren't written, since it's mostly improvised with only basic outlines of what we're talking about," Craig reassured, "Even if you get stuck about what to talk about, we'll have cue cards saying what segment is coming up next."

"What happens if I'm walking and trip pm my own feet," Tweek asked, "Everyone in the audience will laugh at me."

"They won't laugh at you," Craig reassured, "They'll laugh with you."

"Tripping over my own feet won't make me laugh," Tweek argued.

"That's not the audience's fault," Craig snapped, "Anything else?"

"How should I sit," Tweek questioned.

"What," Craig snapped.

"Should I sit in a way that invites the audience in, while also showing off a care free attitude," Tweek asked, "Or should I sit stiff and hunched over like usual."

"The first one, I guess," Craig begrudgingly answered.

"So, I should just lie to the audience about who I am," Tweek questioned, "Should I dye my hair too? Is blonde too unlike this new me you want me to create?"

"Errr..." Craig stuttered.

"One minute until rehearsals," a random producer yelled out.

"OK, Tweek," Craig brushed off, walking away, "We've got to get this thing going. We can talk about this later."

"But Craig..." Tweek quietly stuttered.

Craig felt a little bad for shoving Tweek aside, but the lights were about to go out and rehearsals were about to start. So, he had to get in his place backstage.

Almost right after Craig stepped on his x, the lights went out and he could barely see in front of his face. Then, the lights from the stage came on.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer introduced, "Welcome to the show* (Name to come later)."

Craig had to remember to discuss what the show should be called with Tweek after rehearsals.

"And now," the announcer continued, "Please welcome your hosts: Craig Tucker and Tweek Tweak."

Craig then ran outside, showing the feigned excitement he saw on many other talk show hosts. However, Craig didn't have to take his enthusiasm too much. He would never admit this, but something about the crowd cheering him on made him feel pretty damn good.

But, as Craig sat down in his chair, he suddenly realized that Tweek hadn't come out with him. He was sitting next to an empty chair.

"Um," the announcer stuttered, "Tweek? You coming out?"

"Fuck my consent," Craig grumbled, "Why now, Tweek?"

Craig got up and went backstage to see that Tweek was huddled underneath the craft services table, refusing to move.

"Tweek," Craig whispered, "What the fuck? Why aren't you moving?"

"I'm not doing this," Tweek whimpered, "I'm not going out there."

"What are you talking about," Craig growled.

"I'm just not cut out for this, Craig," Tweek whined, "All their eyes staring at me, waiting for me to slip up. I can't go out there."

"Are you aware of how much money is at stake here, Tweek," Craig yelled, unaware that his mini microphone is broadcasting his entire speech to the audience, "If we don't get it, it's probably just going to go to some vapid, attention seeking whore, willing to let all her holes get stretched to the size of a shower drain if it means she gets to be on TV. She'd probably tell you your coffee tastes like shit, but compliment the taste of the studio executive's cock. That whore definitely doesn't deserve any of our money."

"Well, would you consider letting me wear a blindfold," Tweek asked.

"A blindfold," Craig questioned.

"If I don't see the people's eyes staring at me," Tweek argued, "I may not be so nervous."

"I am not hosting a talk show with a kid who looks like they should be in front of a firing squad," Craig yelled.

"Firing squad," Tweek gasped, "Who said anything about a firing squad?"

"Will you just get out there," Craig growled.

"I just can't do it," Tweek whined, "It's too much pressure."

"There you go again with the damn pressure," Craig yelled, "Why can't you ever just do something to help someone else instead of being so fucking selfish?"

Tweek responded to Craig's outburst by burying his head in his shirt. Craig knew he had to apologize whenever Tweek did this. It didn't matter if he was in the right, only an apology would bring Tweek out.

"I'm sorry," Craig inscincerely apologized.

"I know you didn't mean that," Tweek shot back.

Even then, an apology didn't always work.

"Seriously," Craig yelled, "Have I ever lied through apology to you?"

"Sixty four times," Tweek replied, "And counting."

"You're really anal sometimes, you know that," Craig groaned.

"Mr Tucker," an intern pointed out, "I thought you should know that your microphone is on."

"So the entire audience can..." Craig stuttered.

"Hear everything you're saying, yes," the intern finished.

"Aaahhhh," Tweek screamed, "What must the audience think of me, now?"

Tweek then crawled deeper backstage, making a noise reminiscent of a deflating inflatable.

"Tweek," Craig yelled, "Get back here! We're not done with our conversation!"

But, Tweek couldn't hear him. Or, maybe he could and he just didn't care. Either way, Craig had to go out, sit back in his chair, and face the audience alone.

"So," Craig cheerily greeted, "What's in the news this week? I hear President Garrison did something stupid."

"I'm a Garrison supporter," an audience member yelled.

"I'm a Bernie supporter," another audience member countered, "And I agree with the foul mouthed brat."

"Agree with what," Craig questioned.