ALL CHARACTERS AND EVENTS IN THIS FAN FICTION – EVEN THOSE BASED ON FICTIONAL PEOPLE– ARE ENTIRELY MADE-UP. ALL LOVECRAFT REFERENCES ARE RESEARCHED… POORLY. THE FOLLOWING STORY CONTAINS LEWD SEXUAL HUMOR AND DUE TO ITS LONG INTROSPECTIVE MONOLOGUES IT SHOULD NOT BE READ BY ANYONE. _|_|_|

Stan

In the League, things were going great. Things were fucking awesome, actually. Craig brought us news within his first couple weeks sneaking around the Cult for us—news of a weird new bookstore that had popped up in South Park, that only seemed to be open when a Cultist needed to go in. Naturally, Kenny sprung right on that (this was sometime in April), and the Goth girl Henrietta somehow let Mysterion convince her to check it out. Craig was forced to tag along with her, and when Mysterion, the Human Kite and I rendezvoused with them later, the two simultaneously lit up cigarettes and said it was nothing special.

That got Mysterion in a pissy mood for a few minutes, until Craig handed over what looked like a report from the 1940s, bound together in a spiral, and clearly written up on someone's home typewriter. It contained information about a strange presence in Los Angeles, and weird happenings surrounding a pimp that had simply gone by the name of 'Mr. Skin.' Which Craig said was weird because a man from L.A. he'd had trouble with in the drug ring a few times before had called himself exactly that. Henrietta then brought up evidence of the same name having been used back in the 1920s; in fact, a lot of our Cthulhu data was bringing us back to that decade. Needless to say, Mysterion wasn't pissed anymore, at least not until we could find no more leads on the guy.

None of us gave up on it, though, and Craig and the Goths did start bringing in a steady flow of documents on Cult activity. Primarily, we learned about a deity called Yog-Sothoth. A second forced trip for Henrietta and Craig to the bookstore yielded, in early June, a long sought-after old handwritten page of notes on this new Old One. Yog-Sothoth, it said, was like a void—the thing that guarded the Gate to R'lyeh, more or less the Gate itself. Mysterion appeared to already know a little about that deity, but made a big deal of tellig the rest of us about it.

"What?" the Human Kite wondered at one of our meetings. "Are we planning on infiltrating R'lyeh?"

"I'm not discounting it as a possibility," said Mysterion, "at least for me. The rest of you can choose to do what you want, but I have a personal score to settle with Cthulhu."

"Man," the Coon commented, "Cthulhu's kind of a pussy."

"Oh, do tell," Marpesia snapped at him.

"What?" said the Coon. "I just don't get what's so important about him. Yes, he's some dark god from another dimension, and—"

"Yeah," Mysterion cut in, glowering at the one among us who had singlehandedly wrangled Cthulhu during the Gulf Crisis, "he's 'some dark god' that the Cultists are trying to wake up again so that, oh, the world can be destroyed. I'd say that's pretty fucking important."

"Well, fine, okay," the Coon said, "but how 'bout let's actually figure out when they want to do that so we're not just sitting here talking about gates and shit."

That—we all had to admit—was pretty logical. It even silenced Mysterion for a moment. The Human Kite and I exchanged a brief glance, and Marpesia was the one to ask, "Did he just… have a pertinent idea?" Which won her a glare from the person in question.

"Listen," said Mysterion, "I've thought of that, too, but not even Henrietta knows."

"So make Craig do it," Mosquito suggested. "We're paying him anyway."

It made sense, so we put him up to it. Apparently it was harder information to dig up than we thought, however, so we were yet again forced to wait and conduct what research we could. Things were getting exciting in those respects, if a little scary, just because it felt like something was encroaching.

And I was to find out, that fall, just how deep we'd gotten ourselves.

– – –

We reached a lull by summer, though, so I decided to take the time to attempt to sort out my personal life.

I felt like I still wasn't used to Wendy, as Marpesia, being a part of the League. She'd done her fair share, though—her skills as a reporter really came in handy, and, though we hadn't had to fight anyone off much lately, she was great to have as backup, too. The problem was how she wasn't able to blur the line.

And it eventually came down to Wendy wanting to know too much about everything I did. She tried to get me back into Facebook. I told her fuck no, I hate Facebook, I have a phone. Then, of course, I'm never one to be very reliable with my phone, either. I've actually lost the thing a couple times, but my parents have been nice enough to replace them when I do.

One incident, in early summer, though, set the tone for the way our relationship was sort of doomed to be strained from then on out. Now, I liked Wendy. A lot. I enjoyed her company, and admired her dedication to her morals. I liked being her boyfriend, I liked having someone to stand up for—someone who, despite her feminist agenda, enjoyed me acting like that. But I started thinking about what made us tick. We'd been together, on and off, since third grade. I'd never been with anyone else, but she had dated other guys plenty of times on our breaks.

What bothered me was that, if I'd been so replaceable before, why now was she trying so damn hard to keep me around? The answer was bound to come, and it all started one evening after I'd actually had a pretty fucking enjoyable day. It had started out being me, Kyle and Kenny, enjoying one of our last summers of high school before things started to get too crazy. Kenny's phone eventually went off, and he ditched us for his girlfriend, which was completely understandable.

Kenny had seemed a lot happier lately, even when we had setback weeks in the League, and it was all because of Red. He was still lewd as ever, but he stuck up for his girlfriend in a very traditional way, and Kyle and I joked that she'd probably put him up to acting like that. Cartman said he was pussy-whipped. And it was kinda true. And kinda hilarious. But he'd almost wanted it that way for a while, so it all worked out.

I even made the comment that day, too: "Dude," I said to Kyle, "I think Cartman was right about Kenny."

"Did you see that?" Kyle agreed with a laugh, as we meandered through town with no discernable destination. "He picked up after, like, one ring! Think she was just booty-calling, or what?"

"Dude, with Kenny, who knows?" I smirked. "Chances are he'll get some by the end of the day no matter what, though, so we shouldn't laugh."

"Dude, fuck off, you have a girlfriend, too," said Kyle, shoving me a little. "You could make that happen, easy."

I patted my pockets and laughed. "I left my phone in the car," I realized. "Couldn't even if I wanted to!"

"Oh, my God, Stan, just go live in Amish country, already," Kyle said, rolling his eyes.

"Don't think I won't," I joked back. "I'll go build awesome furniture the rest of my life while the rest of the world complains that there are no 5D televisions."

Kyle shoved me again, this time a little more playfully. "Like you could resist the allure of small-town Colorado that much," he laughed, keeping it up.

Rather than just shove him back, I went a step further and yanked Kyle over to the side by latching my right arm around his neck, then proceeded to mess with his hair, since for once he wasn't wearing a hat to cover it. I went right at the plates I knew he spent way too long trying to get right so he wouldn't have to deal with the curls, tangling it all into a differently splayed pattern. Kyle wrestled my arm up and over his head, then ducked away after giving me a backwards slap on the arm. "Nah, you're right," I ended up saying in response to his last quip. "This is a crazy-ass town, but there's a lot to like here."

"Not to press the earlier issue," said Kyle, almost out of nowhere, "but, uh… how is it going with Wendy?"

I shook my head and shrugged, pocketing my hands. "Who knows, dude?" I said. "I mean, I like her and all, but now it's like, she knows something's weird, and she's acting either clingy or distant almost like she wants to make it weirder. That make sense?"

"Kinda. I dunno. I don't know Wendy too well," Kyle admitted, which was true, "but she does have strong opinions."

"And strong mood swings," I added, sort of muttering. Despite it all, I managed to laugh. "Man," I remarked, "girls are impossible."

"No they're not, according to Clyde," Kyle snickered. "Just buy her some new shoes."

"Dude, Wendy is not that shallow."

"I bet she is!" Kyle said, taking a jab at my ribs. "If all girls are equally impossible—"

"Don't fucking turn dating into physics!" I warned; he'd gotten me going, laughing, though.

Kyle smirked and went on, "No, do it, dude, I'll prove it! She'll be all—" and here he affected a purposefully awful falsetto and leaned up into me to imitate Wendy, "oh my God, Stan, you are sooooo nice, I'll totally stop bugging you all the time now!"

Awkwardly enough, I couldn't even get out the laugh I knew I had in me, since, of all things, my gag reflex acted up—the one I'd been able to control for a while but which still posed a problem when I got flustered, almost exclusively around Wendy. I cupped one hand over my mouth at the last minute and stopped walking. Kyle fell into a fit of laughter and had to keep his balance by grabbing onto my shoulder.

"Dude, did you just almost puke?" he wondered. His face was flushed red from laughing so hard, and he wore a broad, white grin.

I coughed into my fist a couple times and swallowed back, the familiar burning sensation of acid slid down my throat and my entire body begged for me to find water fast. "Ugh," I said, disgusted at the fact that I'd almost not caught it, "sorry, dude, that was weird. I thought that was just a Wendy thing."

Kyle stood back, and we continued walking as he said, "Yeah, dude, I'm definitely not Wendy."

"Yeah, no kidding."

As I was rubbing my throat to try to help ease the discomfort of the accidental upchuck, Kyle shrugged and said, "Eh, must've just been my Oscar-worthy rendition of her."

We left it at that and carried on. I sort of wanted to get back to my car then and there, just to see if Wendy had called me, but walking back would have meant most likely ending the day, and I really didn't care for my phone that much. It was probably out of battery anyway. Besides, Kyle wanted to stay out as long as possible. Anything, he said, to keep avoiding the college talk. He was avoiding that like the plague, now more than ever, especially now that his parents were starting to plan college visits at various places around the country. I knew I wanted to stay in Colorado. Most of us did. College was the one topic, though, that Kyle and I never talked about, because I respected his unease about it. I'd learn when I'd learn.

At the end of the day, I discovered that my phone had indeed been drained of its battery, so I plugged it in as soon as I got home to discover an alarming assortment of fifteen texts, voicemails and missed call alerts from Wendy. Huh. Shit. Maybe I should have gone to check when I'd thought of it.

Talking on cell phones at home still seemed kind of redundant to me (plus I had shit for a signal and could only really text anyway), so I called my girlfriend from the landline, which I brought up to my room in case things got ugly during conversation. No time like the present to keep trying to sort things out, and things with Wendy were as strained as they got.

Wendy picked up after two rings; her response was a frantic, "Stan?"

"Yeah, hey," I said. "Look, Wendy, I wanted to say sorry I didn't get your—"

"Stan!" Wendy cried over the phone, utterly ignoring my attempts at placating her before a shitstorm could start. "What the hell? I've been trying to call you all day!"

"Yeah, I noticed," I said, deleting the last of the fifteen alerts on my cell while trying not to be angry about it. "Look, I left my phone in my car, sorry about that. You know I don't really care if I do that."

"Where were you?" she demanded.

"Just hanging out with Kyle," I told her, "no big deal."

"No big de—I'm coming over!"

"Wendy, what the hell?"

"I'M COMING OVER, STAN." Well, that was that. I figured I had about ten minutes before she'd be storming in, so I called down to warn my dad she'd be over, then paced around my room wondering how to handle the shitstorm I was about to be dealt.

I couldn't even figure out what she was so Goddamn angry about. So I didn't have my phone on me all day. Whatever. I'd told her on several occasions that sometimes I wished I didn't even have a cell phone.

That first five minutes was spent trying to calm myself down. Nothing worked. Because Wendy was unpredictable, and she had sounded pretty upset. The second five minutes dissolved into how I could just build up my defense against her. I didn't think I needed one, because the defense was, simply, I don't care if I leave my phone off or where I can't find it. Besides, South Park is a relatively small town. Wendy could have just walked around and found me if she really needed me.

Ten minutes exactly before the VW Bug pulled up in our driveway. Another five seconds before the knock.

"STANLEY!" I heard Wendy shriek from downstairs.

"Up in his room, Wendy," I heard Dad say to her. "What's going on with you two?"

"Hi Mr. Marsh, sorry, this is between me and your son," said Wendy quickly, the volume of her voice telling me that she was booking it up the stairs.

Not about to be outdone, I squared myself in my doorway and waited. About two seconds later, Wendy stormed down the hall and punched me in the shoulder. "I'm okay with talking," I said as evenly as I could, staring my girlfriend down, "but I'm not about to get in a fight with you."

"Oh, we're already in one," Wendy snapped, shoving me backwards into my room and slamming the door behind her.

"Okay, what gives, Wendy, what the fuck?" I demanded. "So I left my phone off today."

"What were you doing?" she hollered.

"I fucking told you!"

"Well what were you doing with Kyle?"

"I don't know!" I shouted, throwing my hands up in defeat. "What do we ever do?"

"You tell me!" screamed Wendy, before collapsing into tears.

"Wendy—Wendy, aw… awwww, come on," I said, frustrated but concerned. Wendy could often have mood swings like it was her job. Sometimes I just pegged it that she was having her time of the month and I'd leave her alone and we'd be fine once that was over with, but at other times, she really would just get overemotional. It seemed to be more frequent now that she'd joined the League, too.

Testingly, I walked over and set my hands on her shoulders, which surprisingly, given her outbursts, she let me do. After another second, I drew her in for a hug. It was almost weird, how deseprately I tried to argue with myself that I still needed Wendy. I'd grown tired of her pestering, but at the moment, I couldn't think of what I'd do if we didn't at least try to keep going. Yes, I thought she was being a little unreasonable, but I couldn't deny that I didn't have my moments, too.

We managed to do it again, though. After I promised her to be more attentive, and after she promised to stop asking so many questions about what I considered to be the more private segments of my life, we kissed and made up. Again. Just like we always did. We almost rushed back into it, too; or maybe we really did. Our relationship was filled with more fights than ever, but they only ever reached a boiling point before we'd both immediately shut up, quietly give in, and pick up where we'd left off.

All the while, though, fight after fight, make-up after make-up, I felt like we were picking at a wound we should have left alone. Something like our relationship had to either be healed completely or accepted as an old battlescar and leave it at that while moving on. But no, we kept it up, and for the most part we were glad we did. It wasn't healthy, though. Because now, we were skeptical of each other. We'd breached each other's limits.

Nonetheless, we went into junior year as a couple, and once Wendy was back in school with her girl clicque, things seemed to be fine. She and Bebe began talks of Homecoming, throwing all of their support at me and Clyde right from the beginning of the school year, even though the season had just started and he and I were more concerned with League activities than being on varsity football (which was almost weird, but true).

And life went on, as usual. For a while.

– – –

The bane of every junior's existence at SPHS was, without a doubt, the mandatory college advisory sessions with the school's councelor, the young and overly perky Ms. McKay, who never, despite her best efforts, got totally through to anyone. I was doomed to a session with her a couple days after school started, and she swept me gleefully into her office at nine a.m., interrupting second period to do so. I actually had kinda wanted to pay attention in that class, so this added torture was an unwelcome bitch.

"Stan Marsh!" Ms. McKay sang. "How are you?" As if she knew me at all.

"Fine," I mumbled, slumping down into her guest chair to make damn sure she saw how uninterested I was with this session.

"So let's get started!" she chimed. I rolled my eyes. "Now, Stan, have you given any thought to what you want to study after high school?"

"Yeah, I'm going to CSU."

Ms. McKay blinked, something she did erratically; whether or not it was a tick she was unaware of was something we students often took bets on. "Well, yes, that's an option, but what field do you want to pursue?" She chose to stress her words in a way that I was sure, in her head, meant she was milking information out of me, but to me just sounded strained for no reason.

"I'm going to CSU!" I repeated firmly. "That's all I know. I'll figure the rest out once I get there."

Ms. McKay's small face squinched up to show her displeasure. I remained indifferent. College had never been anything that worried me, insofar as personal goals. Shelley had gone into school undeclared, and I was planning on doing the same thing. I was an average student with average ideas about the future—whatever. I knew I liked helping out nonprofits for the environment, but did that mean I was going to go into business or forestry? Not necessarily. I always figured the future would sort of reveal itself to me.

"Mr. Marsh, I know this is a daunting time for students like yourself, but could you even see yourself touring other colleges around the country, just to get a feel for what it is you could do?" Ms. McKay tried. "I spoke with your own girlfriend earlier today, Stan—you know that she's looking at places like Barnard… Simmons…"

"Yeah, all-girls and all." We'd talked about college a little, Wendy and I. She'd snapped at me once for having 'low expectations,' but then she'd also gotten mad once that I hadn't tried to talk her into going to the same school I wanted. Wendy was getting tougher to read by the day, it seemed. "Look," I tried, "I'm really set on not leaving Colorado. Maybe I'll change my mind later and look into transferring, but I'm not just blindly throwing out CSU. It's a good school and it's where I want to go, okay? The end."

Only in the interest of time, Ms. McKay conceded, and we bantered for the rest of my fifteen-minute time slot about SATs and how maybe I should take another prep course or hire a tutor. She rattled on about other things, too, but I got distracted by the U.S. map behind her desk, where she'd stuck pins into places around the country that I guess she was recommending to sudents. Simmons was one of them, I noticed… all the way across the country, in Massachusetts. Harvard was there, too, and Yale in nearby Connecticut—two obvious schools Mr. and Mrs. Broflovski had picked out (for both of their sons).

That map bothered me, and for the first time, I let myself be scared about college. Not for myself, really, not out of any fear for taking exams and writing entrance essays and choosing a track and whatnot… but about everyone else. Fuck, Clyde and I were both bent on CSU, since we'd both agreed we were going for athletic scholarships, and Bebe was following him; Token was on the fence, but even Cartman and a few others were thinking CSU as well. Kenny could only afford the application fee on so many schools, but CSU was one of them. If I lost Wendy and Kyle to the east coast, though, it would make the rest seem a little pointless, I realized.

I was someone who relied on constants. Despite some setbacks, I'd always had those two, and now time seemed to be closing in on how long I'd have them around. There was no way a long-distance relationship with Wendy would work. Not the way we were going. So I had a choice. We could break up now and try to be friends, and stay in touch and everything, or we could draw out what we had as long as we were both in South Park, which, in the long run, would probably hurt even more.

The talk with the councelor had set me in a weird mood, and one I kind of remained in for some time. It helped (or at least seemed to) with Wendy, for a while. I started seeking her out during the day more, and decided to apologize, even though I wasn't entirely sure it was a justified thing for me to do; I wasn't sure what I was sorry for.

But it brought us through September together, and into October, when the school exploded with talk of Homecoming. Homecoming was hardly something exciting in South Park, since pretty much everyone who had lived here always came back, but every year, the faculty (and the cheerleaders) tried to turn it into some big-to-do, like we were Denver or something. My seventeenth was approaching, as was the talked-up Homecoming game.

And then, in the midst of it all, it happened.

– – –

And, despite the lead-up, it still seemed to happen all too soon. It was on a rare night of what was meant to be passion. When we'd started spending a lot of time alone again, we still weren't saying much for a while. For the most part, we simply held hands whenever we could. We'd meet in the halls between classes, but we rarely kissed in public anymore. Sex didn't last as long, and felt kind of like a plea. This particular night was different, or it started out feeling that way. I could almost feel the spark coming back, maybe due to the heightened energy surrounding the talk of Homecoming, but then things degenerated quickly when Wendy brought up a touchy subject.

"Time for a cut, sweetie," Wendy purred. Coyly, she wove the thin, milky fingers of her left hand through my hair, grasping at the back to assist her point. Trapping me in a fast kiss, she then bit and held my lower lip. Nonetheless, I got out a, "Hmm?" in the midst of it. "Your hair, Stan," my girlfriend clarified, sitting back onto my legs. The offbeat jazz piano music she'd put on for atmosphere provided an awkward background for her as she gently let go of my head, in favor of massaging my neck. In fact, the music was enough to turn me off, and set me on edge. Normally, I'm all for some of the experimental stuff Wendy likes to listen to, but this was just basically crap. If I had my say, we'd never listen to music at all in bed. I mean, I read it like she wanted a fallback in case I bored her too much, or she desperately had to paw for a topic of conversation. Given that the music had been the subject of talks before, I knew I wasn't far off the mark.

"Wendy, no," I said, idiosyncratically pinching the bridge of my nose and squinting my eyes.

"What?" she whined, moving now to run her hands down my chest. I barely felt it. That music was pissing me off. Wendy snapped my mind back to her briefly when she leaned down to kiss my collarbone, leaving a warm impression on the spot she'd touched. "Not up for this tonight?"

"No, I mean my hair," I amended my last comment. "Not this time, 'kay?"

"Stan, don't be silly," laughed Wendy. She sat back again and tucked a strand of her fine, glossy black hair behind her right ear. "You know you should keep it short, especially during football season. If it was any longer, imagine the—"

"Wendy, babe, I really think I know my own comfort levels on these things," I said, getting short. The piano crescendoed into an incomprehensible coda. "How about I just keep it like this? Don't shear the back."

"Stan, you're being difficult," Wendy frowned.

"Um... no?" I countered, propping myself up onto my elbows. "Look, hon, maybe you like how it looks or whatever, but to be honest, no, I don't like how it feels when you shear it close like that. I like it longer."

"What, like Kyle's?" Wendy tried, squinching her pretty face up to show her displeasure.

"No," I laughed, "not as nice as Kyle's, but—"

"Oooouuhh!" groaned Wendy, getting up only to sit back down on the foot of my bed with her arms crossed. "Here we go."

Was I going crazy, or was the music angering her, too? "What?" I wondered. "Wendy, what?"

"You just did it again!"

"Did what?"

"Oh, just the way you—the compliment, and—"

"Compliment?" I sputtered, sitting up a little more. "What?"

Wendy sucked in a deep breath, and glared at me from where she sat. Tears clung to the corners of her eyes, but she hadn't seemed to notice them. "Stan," she said, trying to speak evenly, "do I annoy you?"

I sat up with a jolt and crossed my legs; there was now a space between us, which felt a lot larger than I'm sure it actually was. "Excuse me?" I said, raising my eyebrows at her.

"I feel like I do!" said Wendy, looking away. "Everyone keeps saying, 'he's just getting used to you being in the League, Wendy.' Is that true? I've been with you guys for a few months, now, but you're still being—"

"I'm still being what?" I demanded.

"I don't know! Distant! Disinterested!" Wendy practically hollered. "I feel like you've been trying to avoid me. Either that or you're—y-you're—"

The piano began to bounce around in tempo and volume, adding unwanted noise to my already buzzing mind. The frantic energy from the music underscored Wendy's onset of hysteria in a very unflattering way, making her words rub me in all the wrong ways even more. "I'm—?" I prompted.

"Cheating on me."

"WHAT?"

"I FEEL LIKE YOU'RE CHEATING ON ME!" Wendy screamed.

"What the fuck?" I shouted back. "With who?"

"Stan, don't make me…"

"No, I want to hear this." She was being ridiculous. I'd never be with another girl and she damn well knew it. None of the other girls at school even did anything for me. I never looked around, I never thought about it; none of the teachers were very desireable, even. No. I had no reason to cheat, and coming from her, that was a hefty statement. She'd flirted around all the time, always finding a rebound on our breaks, always assuming I'd just be there and take her back whenever. "Who is it, Wendy? Who am I seeing behind your back?"

"Stan, don't," she pleaded.

"No! I need to know who you think I'm—"

"Kyle," Wendy interrupted, her eyes fully clouding up now.

A spark lit in my gut and I burst into flames. Well, I knew what the old expression 'hot and bothered' meant, now, holy shit. She'd sent me into a rage, to the point that I couldn't even speak. Finally, words spewed out of me in the form of a terrifying, "Say that again…?"

This time, Wendy shouted. "Kyle!" she repeated, then immediately shrank back. I must have looked pissed to beat hell. The piano wouldn't shut the fuck up.

"That's absolute bullshit," I argued.

"I don't think so!" Piano, piano, Wendy screaming, piano—

"Oh, my God, please turn this music off!" I hollered. Fed up, I stood to do the deed myself. I crossed to my dresser, where Wendy had set up her iPod dock, ready to smash the whole device. Under normal circumstances, I would either have laid back and let the playlist work itself through, or perhaps even suggested a change of pace in music choices. As it stood, however, I was too incensed to even have the decency to just plain pause the song. Giving it no room for thought, I yanked the cord out from the wall, dropped it onto the dresser, then drew in a deep breath of calming silence. I let the breath out slowly, placing my palms flat down on the dresser.

"Stan..?" Wendy tried.

"Wendy," I bit back. "You're being crazy. Stop it. You're being ridiculous and paranoid."

"Ridi—ridiculous and paranoid?" she practically shrieked. "Look at it from my side, would you? Whose advice do you value more than anyone's? Kyle's. Who do you call when you're depressed or not feeling well? Kyle. Who's the first person you go to after we fight, Stan?"

"Wendy, I—"

"KYLE."

I whipped around and slammed my right fist down on the dresser behind me, an action which caused a now pale-faced Wendy to jump. "Are we seriously having this conversation?" I said brusquely. "What do you want from me, Wendy, huh? So we hang out a lot; big fucking deal. I'm not going to ignore my best friend—since we were two, Wendy, Jesus!—because my girlfriend is feeling paranoid and judgmental! It's not like you! When did this start, anyway? And you know what, how would you feel with these accusations? You go off, you have your 'girl time' with Bebe and them, you have your book club, and never once have I considered that a front for flirtatious behavior between you!"

"Then why are you getting so defensive?" Wendy demanded through clenched teeth.

"I'm not! Oh, my God. Okay, what? What do you want me to do, Wendy?" I challenged her, opening out my arms to show that I was up for discussion, however cross she and her music had made me for the rest of the night despite whatever else came out of it. "Do you want me to lay off talking to Kyle?"

"Stan, that's not the point," Wendy said. Her earlier aggression was fading, and her voice was drawing back into more of a whimper.

I shook my head, still in disbelief of her accusations. "Wendy…" I began, not entirely sure of where I was going with that thought. I could feel it coming on… the one thing I was kind of expecting, but wasn't prepared for. Her paranoia was making it worse, and was already starting to dig into me. Was it trust, maybe? My discomfort with her in the League could be traced to how quickly she came on, and I was still on the fence about whether we could trust her with those secrets. So now she was breaching my trust on an everyday level. She couldn't trust me to have my own life and do my own thing without her watching, was that it? "Okay," I settled on saying. "What is the point? Please, I'm serious, tell me, what's the issue here?"

"You see it, too," Wendy argued, trying hard to look at me without judgment. "I can tell. I don't come in first to you. You don't even come in first to you. Let's face it. You're a great guy, Stan. You're wonderful. You do a lot of great things for a lot of people; you just… do good, and I love that about you, sweetie, I do, but you don't see everything that's happening directly to you. You don't see me anymore.

"Is that it?" she went on, as she stood and began collecting her things. I watched, unsure of how I felt. We hadn't gone all the way that night yet, but she was down to her underwear, black with yellow lace trim, though obviously not for long. I felt like I was watching a movie. The scene where the guy loses the girl. Except, fuck—that was me. But I was still stuck there watching. Feeling… nothing. Because one of my constants was about to leave. "Is that why it's hard having Marpesia in the League? And maybe I've been asking you a lot, honey, but have you asked me anything? Anything at all? No! I'm just… I'm just, like, an accessory right now, I'm not a girlfriend. I feel like an accessory, a… a-a—a tool! Oh, and that's just perfect, for you, as—"

"Wendy, stop it!" I hollered. "You're jumping around all over the place, just stop, just—I don't—God!" I grabbed at my hair in frustration, unable to think. I hadn't been treating her badly, not at all. Dully, maybe, but not badly by any means. "You're not a tool, would you stop that? You know I like you, girl, but—"

"Oh! So there is a 'but!'" Wendy cried, her arms full of her streetclothes now, her eyes tear-stained and bleak. "Just admit it, we're done. You don't see me anymore!"

"What are you—"

"Look at me!" Wendy commanded, throwing her arms out to her sides, exposing me to her slender, half-naked frame. Her clothes once again fell to the floor, and her face flushed pink, offsetting her wide, misty eyes. "Do I even excite you, Stan?"

I swallowed back, but realized it wasn't the old gag reflex acting up; I was just plain choked up. Because I was watching it end. I was watching years of my life just stop. "You're beautiful, " I told her. "I don't see what's…"

"The question wasn't, Do you think I'm pretty? It was, Do I excite you?" Wendy said, looking a little more forlorn. After a few seconds of us staring at each other with no words between us to fill the empty space, she sighed and started pulling her clothes back on.

"Why are we doing this?" she asked me, shaking her head. "Why are we still even going out?"

"Wendy… jeez, I don't know, because—" I tried, then stopped myself. Because I'd said those words: I don't know.

I don't know.

Those words translated into so many different things. Things like, Because you're a constant. Because I don't want to be single. Because I'm too afraid to try to start something with anyone else.

I don't know.

"This hurts, Stan, but I can't do this anymore," Wendy sobbed. "I'm so sorry, but I need time. A-and space, and... well, a lot of things."

My heart skipped. My head shook itself no. I was almost seventeen. We'd been together for practically ten years. Yes, we'd taken breaks before, but I'd even said it aloud: one more would be the end. Seventeen is so much different than nine. Seventeen is almost adulthood, it's when you're supposed to start figuring yourself out, and it seemed like Wendy was forcefully wanting me to do that on my own.

Things spiraled around me. What would I have, once she left? My 'average' college plan seemed stupid. I'd go in single and undeclared and probably end up settling for geology just because I knew a little about it and could come back to South Park and work for my dad and be just another one of those stories. There was the League, that was a constant, but how long after we got to the core of the Cthulhu thing would that last? And then, there was…

"Wendy," I tried to reason with her, "we can work this out…"

"You haven't wanted to so far," she pointed out, not looking at me. "Please don't make this hurt any more than it does."

"If it hurts, then why are you breaking up with me?" I demanded.

"Because I love you, Stan!" Wendy cried. My heart froze. Love was one of those words I couldn't really describe to myself. The older I got, the weirder the word seemed to be. I used it in the casual sense, to describe activities and foods and such I particularly enjoyed, but when it came to romantic love… that was a different beast entirely. And I found myself embarrassed that I hadn't really thought to define it in terms of however it was I felt about Wendy. "I love you," she repeated, "so it hurts that we've been so damned empty to each other lately. You look at me, but I don't seem to be here to you, you know? Just… look at yourself first and try to figure it out. Don't be with me just for the sake of it, okay? I have to… we have to… we have to stop."

The worst part was, I couldn't argue. Because I didn't know if I loved her. Those words again. I don't know. I don't know what love is. I don't know if I love you. I cared for Wendy, deeply, and was proud of her and sometimes even envied her.

But she ripped my heart out when she made me realize I didn't love her.

I found myself nodding, and wondering what the hell was going to happen next, now that I was alone and troubled. Not to mention paranoid. Had I really projected enough to make Wendy think I was cheating on her? Did I really seem that out of touch around her? And did anyone else think that about me and Kyle as well…?

My heart pounded, as if each beat was telling me, Don't let her leave. Don't let Wendy leave. You're losing a constant. Don't let her leave.

We didn't even hug goodbye. I threw on a shirt and walked her downstairs. At the door, she added one last thing:

"I'll talk to you again when you get over yourself," Wendy sighed, "and when you figure out what's really most important to you."

And then she drove away.

I withdrew into the house, trying not to play back the past hour or so in my head. I didn't succeed. The school was sure to be full of the news the next morning. News that Stan Marsh and Wendy Testaburger had broken up. Fuck. It really was over.

And my stupid, crazy fucking father didn't help.

"Trouble in Paradise, huh, Stan?" Dad asked me, sounding cocky and self-assured. I hadn't even noticed him on the couch.

Already halfway up the stairs, I begged, "Oh, my God, Dad, not now."

"You know, when I was your age, I—"

"I said not now! Jesus!" I snapped. I turned to shoot him a stern glare before charging back upstairs to my vacant bedroom.

I paced for a second, then sat down with an exaggerated sigh on the edge of my bed. I stared at the far wall, not wanting to focus on anything. Goddammit. Goddammit. I'd just lost Wendy, and my Goddamn mind wouldn't tell me how I felt. That did it. I had to talk it out.

I fished out my cell phone, then chucked it across the room when it showed no bars (it luckily landed in a pile of clothes and therefore didn't break) and hoofed it downstairs again. "DAD, JUST SHUT UP," I hollered before he could even say anything. I stormed quickly through the living room and into the kitchen to grab the wall phone, then hurried back upstairs, once again drowning out any more of his useless blather by shouting, "I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT." Dad really needed to learn that he was fucking old, and old people go to bed early. Mom sure had gotten the memo and went to bed at fucking eight. Dad usually passed out on the sofa when he tried too hard to stay up. When Shelley still lived at home, she'd sometimes have to punch him awake.

Phone in hand, I stormed back up to my room, shut the door, and dialed almost absentmindedly. I sat back down on the edge of my bed and tapped my foot impatiently, wondering exactly what I'd say to start the conversation off. Wendy broke up with me, maybe. Wendy left and got me paranoid, so… Oh, God, that was not the right way to start it.

Just as always, two rings and then a click. The click sent my stomach churning, and my heart seemed to leap right into my throat. I managed to swallow it down as Kyle's high tenor came over the receiver, "Stan? What's wrong, dude?—it's late."

As I was opening my mouth to speak, to pour out my troubles to my well-intentioned friend, to describe every detail of the gaping hole Wendy had just torn into my otherwise seamless life, my brain shut down. I was caught in a whirlwind of guilt, shame, and confusion, my mind turning to the points Wendy had assessed that had resulted in my calling her crazy. Here I was, though, doing just what she'd said: here I was, calling Kyle.

"Sorry," I said, bowing my head as I came up with a quick lie. "It was a misdial."

"Stan?"

"See you tomorrow, Kyle," I mumbled, trailing off when I spoke his name. After hanging up, I placed the phone gingerly on the dresser, then bent over myself and held my head.

This wasn't good. I felt sick. Wendy was gone and I was one big walking case of confusion. I thought about calling Kenny and asking for advice, knowing that he had an idea for any situation, but decided not to because it was late and because he was probably having a much more pleasant night with his girlfriend than I'd had with mine.

With my girlfriend. My ex-girlfriend.

Too paranoid and put-off to even talk to the one constant I could always rely on, I sighed and got up to change my bedsheets, which still smelled like Wendy's honey-vanilla perfume. As I tossed the sheets into the laundry basket in the bathroom, all I could think of was how sad my mom was going to be about the breakup. She'd really taken to Wendy, and I cound understand why. Wendy was a really nice, pretty, motivated girl.

I just… didn't love her. And she got that before I did.

I shuffled through the linens in the hall closet, found some faded plaid sheets that fit my bed, and set about draping them on, since I still sucked at making my own bed. After I dug my cell phone out of the laundry pile in the corner, I checked it briefly before shutting the damn thing off, so it wouldn't distract me any. I lay awake for a couple of hours, just wondering how strange things were going to be, then finally fell asleep when my digital clock burned the time 3:41 through the dark bedroom. I'd woken up earlier that day feeling average at best, if not even slightly hopeful. I was falling asleep nervous, downright paranoid. And single.

– – –

I made an appearance at school the next day, despite how gruesome I felt. I arrived at school a good ten minutes late after hauling myself out of bed and tuning out a lecture Dad had decided to give me on how to win women back (which was pretty bad coming from him, seeing as he and Mom had a track record similar to mine and Wendy's… together and split and together again…). The secretary then got pissy at me and gave me a talking-to about punctuality, and I took my late slip without a comment and took my time being even later to History. I suffered through first period fine, but second period English was where things got odd.

For English, we'd been reading Oscar Wilde's The Picture of Dorian Gray. When I got to the classroom, I slid down into the seat I normally took and skimmed through a few pages, registering nothing in the words. I was reminded, about two seconds after trying to make the black blotches on the page form sentences, that we were supposed to have studied up on the themes for a short quiz that morning. Start the day off with a nice F—things couldn't get any better.

Everything Wendy had said had gotten me shaking. I slid the weathered paperback into my backpack and checked my phone to see if she'd texted me anything. Like maybe an apology. I did notice that there was a missed call from Kyle, from about ten minutes after I'd hung up on him and shut my phone off the night before. And another from this morning.

Class started quickly and efficiently; the teacher handed out the quiz, repeating the same rules about making sure to keep our eyes on our own papers and all that, and I emptily took the words in. It was so weird going through the motions, trying to pretend nothing was wrong, that nothing in my life had changed. People were sure to notice soon enough, though. That was sure to make me feel fantastic.

I stared at the quiz, still finding it hard to make words form in front of me. A couple minutes in, once they finally did, the prompt materialized: Select three of the four following topics and write a brief (two or three paragraphs) response, citing chapter examples where possible. One paragraph on the fourth topic will count for extra credit.

Topic 1: The significance of allusion to other literary works.

Topic 2: The significance of aestheticism.

Topic 3: Your reaction to Lord Henry's statement, "No woman is an artist. Women never have anything to say, but they say it charmingly."

Before I even got to the fourth question, I pounded out some nonsense about the third. In the back of my mind, I kept thinking stupid things like, Women are just fucking evil, and, Oh, sure, women are artists—they can completely destroy a man's perception of himself . Despite how bitter I was about Wendy, I was pretty sure I managed something at least semi-plausible.

After that, I went on to the first prompt and scribbled out some hopefully legible crap about Shakespeare, since Hamlet had sure as hell been pounded into us long enough sophomore year. Aestheticism wasn't something I was really ready to tackle, so I read further down on the quiz.

The last prompt was: Topic 4: Your reaction to Wilde's homoerotic overtones as a reflection on Victorian expectations and notions of decency.

"What the…" I muttered under my breath. Was this going to be one of those worries that followed me around no matter fucking what?

A grossly oversized lump formed in my throat, and, right hand shaking, I picked up my pencil and began scrawling something about aestheticism under the second prompt. It was the worst response I've ever written on anything in my life. But I was distracted. Distracted by Wendy's words that pounded the nail into the coffin, distracted by the fourth topic, distracted by how distracted I let that last topic on the quiz make me.

When I glanced up at the clock, I noticed we still had a good five minutes to go. So rather than sit there and accept the monstrous response I'd let my pencil spew all over the second page of the quiz, I apparently decided to torture myself by flipping to the fourth. After glaring at the topic again, I bit and chewed the inside of my lip and started to write:

"As a homosexual writing for an overly critical audience, Wilde reverted to blatant subtext as a vessel for poignant social commentary." (I was of the 'use big words and you'll get a good grade' school of thought.) "Whether or not the inherent homoerotic qualities that play into some relationships in the novel are clear to the characters seems to be up to the interpretation of the reader. A modern readership is likely to approach the subject with a different eye than a Victorian one—"

I stopped. And read over what I'd written. I slapped a period down at the end of the last sentence I'd thought to write out, then turned my quiz over, folded my arms on my desk, and buried my head in them, really wanting to just fall asleep and wake up to a world that spelled itself out for me.

It was probable that I may have even fallen asleep, since the next thing that happened was the teacher firmly repeating my name to collect my quiz. I sat up a little, handed him the stapled sheets of what I was sure was the worst collection of responses in juior English class history, then glanced over to my right, where Kyle was sitting, looking ready to punch me if I hadn't snapped out of it and responded to the teacher.

"Dude," Kyle hissed at me, his eyes filling with concern behind the frames of his reading glasses, "Stan, what's going on? Are you okay?"

The lump in my throat got worse, and I responded with a slight shrug, then looked away. I heard Kyle let out a disapproving sigh, and knew this wasn't over. He'd want to talk about it—why I'd called, and ultimately how I'd come to break up with Wendy. And I was really not in the mood to talk about it, at all. Not until I'd had some time to think.

How had Wendy ended it? "I'll talk to you again when you get over yourself." Get over what? The thing she'd fabricated to make me freak out? Because… she had just thought it up, right?

Or was I missing something?

Was it really that obvious? Could I really have not noticed something about myself, something so significant, despite the answer being right there?

No. No way, I thought. Wendy had just gotten me paranoid. I was losing it. I couldn't recognize myself without her, that was all. Yeah. That had to have been it.

But what if I am? my conscience dug at me all through trigonometry. I told my conscience to shut up and focus. Trig was hard enough for me; I sure as hell didn't need any more confusing mental distractions. At the end of class, I left thinking I'd ask Kyle for help on my trig homework later.

One problem, though. I hadn't been able to speak to Kyle all day. Every time he was anywhere near me, I'd shuffle off in the opposite direction; if he tried to ask me something, I'd shrug and make an excuse. I was worrying myself sick and I knew it. Sick to the point that my gag reflex triggered a couple times, even.

This could lead to nothing good. That was my only thought.

But still, no. No, I tried to tell myself. Now, Stan, let's analyze this. Wendy's insane, I rationalized it. I mean, first of all, I was in no way, shape or form cheating on her. Cheating would have implied infidelity, and I sure as hell wasn't sleeping with Kyle. Gag reflex. Swallow it down. Okay.

These thoughts flitted in and out of my mind frantically as I pushed my way through the hallways toward my next class. By the end of the day, I was still thinking about it. I'd used my varsity privs to get out of lunch in the cafeteria and was barely able to find an appetite while I aimlessly wandered around the grounds instead. I'd ended up forcing down an apple and calling it good.

I'd completely forgotten about fourth period. Chemistry. The one and only class I had with Wendy. Incidentally, also the only class Kyle had with Wendy, despite their similar tastes in advanced-placement courses. So all three of us in the same room meant one glorious mindfuck for me.

I wasn't quite sure of my stance on God, but I definitely believed in a higher power that period if only for the fact that He, She or It decided that it was not a lab day, and was instead a lecture day. Had it been a lab day, I probably would have broken somewhere—Kyle and I had been lab partners in Chemistry since freshman year, as had Wendy and Bebe. The two girls, in an odd turn for Wendy, were writing notes back and forth all period, and I half-expected Kyle to do the same. He gave me one begrudging look at the start of class, and then was engrossed in the lecture for the rest of it.

While I blankly copied down notes, I sorted out my thoughts again. Wendy was being paranoid. She'd broken up with me due to her own insecurities and my admitted anger at her for being too invasive.

Sure, I'd admitted to myself that I could never see myself with another girl at SPHS. That didn't necessarily mean girls in general. Right? …Right? And it's not like Kyle and I ever did anything that would make her think I had some kind of attraction to him. We just hung out. All the time. We were just guys, we just fought about dumb shit like guys do, we'd punch each other for saying stupid things, I'd fuck up his hair because I knew how stupid he'd get about the upkeep. So I'd made a game of it. So we'd done almost everything together all through school. We were friends and we lived in a small town. I shouldn't have had to justify it that much. …Right?

All the same, when the bell rang, I was the first one out of there. Just my luck, though, God (or Whatever) turned a blank eye and I was accosted right off by Bebe, who grabbed me by the sleeve of my sweatshirt and said, "Hey, would you talk to Wendy?"

"Bebe, the fuck?" I snapped. "Let go."

"Jesus! Okay," she said, backing off and splaying her hands out as if to say, No harm done, and you're a wackjob. "Seriously, though, Stan, what did you say to her?"

My eyes flared open and I found myself leaning over to laugh right in Bebe's face. I'm not normally rude, but the current situation wasn't exactly normal. Bebe shrank back, and I came back at her with: "She's got nothing to complain about! What did she say to me is more like it!"

And with that, I totally blew her off and continued down the hall to my locker, letting my frustration just build up. I ripped my locker door open and shoved my Chemistry books in, then noticed something in there that was now completely out of place. And then I went from angry to confused again, and drew in a breath that reminded me of the one thing I hadn't actually thought all day:

It's over.

We were over, and I was left from it feeling… disenchanted. Just… blah. I couldn't tell if I was relieved or not, because I was too fucking paranoid. I didn't know if I was sad, or what. I just could not think.

Just as I was heaving a sigh and tucking away the photo of Wendy I had kept on the top shelf of my locker, I heard the smash of someone punching the locker to the right of mine, and then, in the blink of an eye, the door to my locker was slammed closed, and I barely had enough time to yank my hands out of the way as I jumped back from the sound. "Dude!" Kyle's annoyed tone shot through the air. My stomach flipped again, due to nerves. There was no avoiding the fact that what Wendy had said was still bothering me. All a night's work, I'd become obsessed, in fact: she had honestly set my mind wondering, and now I was in a constant state of fear. I'd looped right back around to it. Suppose she was right. What then? "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Huh?" I wondered, embarrassed to hear my voice crack even with a simple exclamation. I turned my head to find that Kyle was still in position from having slammed shut my locker. With a confident air, he glared up at me, scrutinizing me on points he seemed more than ready to address. It took no stretch of the imagination to see that he was fuming.

"You called me in the middle of the night," Kyle began, counting off reasons on one hand, "only to say that you mis-dialed. Which is bullshit. You've been avoiding me like the plague all day, you're totally out of it, and you were totally rude to Bebe just now! You can tell me what's going on, you know."

I stared at him, and immediately started wondering if I'd ever be able to have a normal conversation with my best friend again. One without worrying about what Wendy had said, anyway. Kyle—our friendship—was another constant, though. I couldn't lose that, too. Fuck, not now. But God, was I paranoid. Everything between me and Wendy really had felt like it had happened so soon. The breakup had happened less than twenty-four hours prior. I was still reeling. I just couldn't focus. I had to hope that I wouldn't be an idiot and start acting empty around Kyle the way I had with Wendy, but then—wait—fuck—

She'd really set my mind off. I was scattered. And had no control over what I said when.

"Well, maybe... maybe," I began, not even believing my words as I spoke them, "there are things I'm entitled not to tell you. Maybe I should stop telling you every single detail of my life. Goddammit, Kyle, you know too much about me already, so—so this is where it stops!"

Kyle paused for a second, raised one eyebrow, then just sputtered, "What?" He splayed his arms out in front of him, indicating his confusion. "Stan, I don't know what the fuck is going on, but are you even listening to yourself? Of course there's stuff I shouldn't know. Whatever. We're friends, we're not the same person. I just think I should know why you seem so pissed at me all of a sudden!"

"I'm not pissed at you!" I shouted. I paused when I noticed that several people were staring at us, or, well, me for being such a loud fucking idiot. I just wanted that day to be over. That day needed to be over. That semester needed to be over. It was only October. And already things were… awful. I had no idea what this meant for the League. I hadn't even really thought about the League all day, I was so damn preoccupied. It was terrible. I wanted to lie down. "I'm not pissed at you," I repeated on a lower volume. "I'm… Wendy said some shit and I just really don't want to talk about it."

"Okay," said Kyle. "That's fine."

"Especially with you," I stupidly blurt out.

"…What? All right, now you're just being an asshole," Kyle scolded me. And he was absolutely right.

"Look, I can't talk right now." As an afterthought, I added, "Sorry, I've… I've gotta go." So that was my excuse? I was just going to walk away? I beat myself up several times over in my head for that.

It sucked how horribly things could get fucked up in a single day. I ended up driving with no destination in mind for a while. I didn't want to go home. I heard my phone go off but ignored it. I didn't want to go fucking anywhere, or face anything. Eventually, I pulled into an abandoned parking lot.

I sat there idling in the lot for a while, trying to force my brain to focus on something… anything else. Wendy was gone—for the last time, and we both knew it. I was too frazzled to talk it out with Kyle. Hell, I didn't know if I could talk to anyone, because any detail about the breakup would eventually lead me to Wendy's first argument about it.

I groaned and leaned against my steering wheel. "Cheating?" I muttered. "Really?" After that, I felt myself choke up again, though what the actual source of this particular onset was, I couldn't place. I just responded by letting out an, "Oh, fuck…"

Wendy had told me that she thought I didn't know myself. Well, she'd been right about me not being in love with her. I couldn't deal with this right now. I couldn't. I didn't want to. There was enough to be worried about without bringing my sexuality into question. School. Games. College. The Cult. I really didn't want to deal with anything that personal, and I was angry at Wendy for turning my mind into a spinning circus about it.

The flash of lights from beyond my windshield jerked me out of my doldrums, though. I gasped and sat back, dimming my own headlights in case it was a cop. (For some reason, the fucking police force liked giving tickets to teenagers who idled in lots specifically marked with signs that warned motorists to turn off their engines.) It wasn't, which was a relief to me at first, until I realized I was actually kind of fucked.

In my anger, in my mode of wanting to escape, I hadn't recognized the lot I'd pulled into. The Cult robe of the guy who crossed through the lot now sure helped. I'd driven right into the lot outside the new used book store, the one that the Goths now routinely chain smoked in front of (and where sometimes Craig could be seen bumming Henrietta's choice cloves every once in a while, too). It was only open whenever a Cultist needed it to be, and right now, I wasn't Toolshed… I was just a dumb fucking teenager who was idling in the Goddamn parking lot.

I really didn't want to end up dead right after the breakup, that would have sucked. Then again, the Cultists weren't really known to kill anyone. Not yet, anyway; or, not recently. There had, in the past, been routine sacrifices to Cthulhu, and nobody in South Park had gone missing, meaning no real issue.

But what I saw that evening was bad enough. Stupidly, I decided to stick around to do a bit of spying, since at least I still had the Cult going for me, and fuck it, I wasn't about to lose that yet. Lights dimmed, I kept a watchful eye on the bookstore.

The man emerged from the store a couple minutes later, carrying a brown paper bag. He checked it a couple of times as he walked back through the lot, and when he removed his hood, I choked back a yelp. I'd helped this guy sort maps before at my dad's office. I knew him. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I fucking knew one of the Cultists.

He lifted his head, and I could have sworn he saw me, too. But he kept on walking. I felt like a wasp's nest had been kicked over in my chest, my heart was beating so fast, so hard. As soon as he'd left, I hightailed it home, keeping both hands on the wheel. The man didn't follow me. "Shit," I whispered under my breath. "Shit, shit, shit, shit."

As if I didn't have enough to deal with.

Nothing really came of the encounter, but that almost made it worse. Because I knew he'd seen me. He must have. If Clyde had been uncovered, who's to say I wasn't next? Oh, this wasn't good. This was not good.

Junior year so far was nothing promising.

In the course of a day, I had lost my girlfriend, become paranoid on a subject I never would have reached on my own if Wendy hadn't screamed it out, and confirmed the identity of another Cult member as someone close to my family.

All I could think was that something good had better come out of at least one of those things, and soon… or I was pretty sure I was going to go crazy.

– – –

– – –

Authors' Note:

South Park is -c- Matt Stone and Trey Parker!

DAMN this one was long, but GOD I loved writing it. ^^

(Do you get my awful, awful joke with the counselor's name? Also, early update today, yay!)

Poor Stan. And thus we come round to what, from the beginning, I've been calling in my head the "B-Plot" of this story. (And the C-plot is mostly in the Butters narrations; pretty soon, everything will culminate into the Mysterion A-plot, though~) What's going to become of all this…? We'll see, soon enough… :3

This was one of the chapters that started out back in November, before I started collaborating with Rosie Denn… after the mid-season finale this year, it made me sad knowing this chapter was coming, because it's kind of similar, in a way. (But at least with this I know what happens next… XD) Not sure if we'll see a return to Kenny's narration next week or if it will be Kyle, but we're coming up on a part that really kicks this story into gear, so we're really excited! (Don't know if we've mentioned this before, but we try to write this using the 'South Park method:' while we have a lot of parts already written, we basically work on an 'episode' a week in advance based on what works to fit where, and even have Tuesday crunch times. It's really fun. XD)

See you again next Wednesday, August 24th!

Guys, thank you all so much for your continued readership! We love seeing new reviews come in; maybe as the story progresses we'll start up a comment response section at the end here as well~ :3

~Jizena and Rosie Denn~

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