Blindfold

Disclaimers: I say the same thing in every chapter.

Author's Note: I'm not dead. :) Long chapter to compensate my silence.

Chapter Eleven: Great (and Dense) Expectations

I'm starting to think that this will become routine—that is to say, arriving home, heading straight for the freezer to get a bag of ice then locking myself in my room until I fall asleep only to wake up in the middle of the night to eat 'dinner' and falling asleep again. That's how it's been going and will go until the whole bruise is gone. They don't make contact with me in any way so far after the incident, but I still have to stay on guard.

As I fish my keys out from my pocket and fiddle with the lock, Ruby walks up to me and stares. Normally, I would ignore her but Ruby staring at me with a face that depicts neither annoyance nor skepticism nor 'what the fuck are you doing?' isn't what I would call normal. So I look at her and ask: "What?"

"Uhm," she starts. "Can I talk to you?"

"You aren't mute, so yeah unfortunately," I answer back, swinging the door open.

She scrunches up her tiny nose. "May I talk to you?"

"Why?" I enter the room and drop my bag on the floor.

"'Cause…" She trails off. Either that or I couldn't hear her mumbled words. I place my keys on the bedside table and take off my jacket. "Because what? Fine, fine. Just lock the door, okay?"

She does as told while I take my shirt off and lie on my bed to place the ice bag on my chest. When she turns around to face me, she cringes at the sight of either my bare torso or my bruised chest. Maybe both. "So, what's up bitch?" I ask, closing my eyes in relaxation.

She breathes out and sits on the edge of the bed, I think. "I'm…uh…that bruise…on your chest…I'm…"

"Come on," I say rather impatiently. I feel like I've urged a lot of people to go on with their sentences countless of times already. I dunno, just a feeling. "And stop stuttering. I can't understand a single word you're saying."

"I've never seen dad so mad before," she quietly says. "I mean—they don't really care about us, right? So why did he…?"

I sigh. It's a complicated story to tell, really. "It's true, he doesn't give a shit about us. He and mom only think about what's best for them and what makes them happy. And if there's something we do that affects them in any way, however great or small, they get really pissed off that we're ruining things for them." I open my eyes and stare at the ceiling. "Years ago, there was this group of kids who made a bet among themselves on who would win in a fight: me or this other kid. Whoever won would prove that he is the biggest troublemaker in class. At first, we didn't want to fight each other. There was no reason to. But Stan and those guys just kept spouting lies to aggravate us and fight. It was…it really…I don't know how to describe it. But we both ended up in the hospital. Then we started to fight again and everyone thought I started it and argh!" I slam my palm on the wall. There's a short pause for me to catch my breath before continuing: "Mom and dad had to pay for his medical bill. It almost got us poor. You remember that, don't you?"

"Yeah," she says. "So…whatever it is you got into…they just don't want it happening again, right?"

I sigh. Ruby looks at me and says: "Sometimes I wonder why they didn't just abort us or something."

I furrow my eyebrows and glare at her. I didn't know what to say. Truth be told, that thought came across my mind once or twice. But I would drop it instantly because even though I try to contemplate on the subject, I would end up with answers that may or may not be the real reason. And I dislike believing in half-true or not-true-at-all statements as real and concrete conclusions.

"Maybe they thought it wouldn't be such a bad thing," I tell her. "Until I got out." Just a simple speculation that seems absurd for me, but I hope it would lighten the mood up a bit.

Ruby giggles, but only for second. I gaze upon her, her eyes staring at her toes that curl and uncurl in uneasiness. I clear my throat and say: "Hey, you're safe in this one. I'm sure of it. I don't hear many stories about abusive dads hitting their daughters, really. As long as they have older bros, I guess." I laugh. She doesn't. "Don't worry, kid. I can take him. He'll write his Last Will and Testament soon enough."

I manage to sit up and flash her a toothy grin. Something I have never done before. She blinks and lets a small tear roll down her face. My smile disappears and I reach out to tousle her red pigtailed hair. "Look, if he dares lay a hand on you, I swear I'm going to gouge his eyes out no matter what the price. I got your back."

She waves her hand dismissively. "Whatever." And standing up, she continues: "And if you think this heartfelt conversation is going to end in a warm sibling hug, then go screw yourself over, faggot."

I glower at her and flip her off with both hands. "Fucking bitch!"

She sticks out her tongue and returns the gesture, giggling. Then she stops and cocks her head to the side and stares at my bedside table. "What's that?" She extends her arm and points at my Biology project.

"Some school project," I answer.

"You made that?"

"Yeah, I'm made of awesome for making something like that and your argument is invalid," I laugh. "Prepare yourself for High School, kid. You have to face assholic teachers like mine."

She rolls her eyes. "That won't be anytime soon, will it?"

"Yeah. Mold yourself into some whore and then you'll be ready." I laugh out loud and she flips me off once more, leaving the room in a huff. My laughter dies down after a moment and I stare at the project neatly and safely placed beside my alarm clock. I poke it a few times. I guess I should bring it to Color Me Prime again. This time, I should pay. Tweek paid for last time. And—

What the fuck am I saying?

I groan and bury my face on my pillow. This has been a very weird day. I need to sleep. But what seemed to be just a five-second span of eyes shut turned out to be a long thirteen-hour slumber with nothing but blackness and emptiness as a dream. The bright morning sunlight shines through the blinds of the window, and I am thankful that I at least did not awake with light burning my drowsy eyes.

Yawning, I rub the crud out of my eyes and scratch my head. I lay there staring at the ceiling for five more minutes before kicking the sheets off my body. As I sit up, I feel the pang of hunger, and then I remember that I dozed off last night so quickly and did not wake at ass o'clock to eat 'dinner'.

I groan and grab the shirt I forgot to put back on, then head towards the bathroom to check on my bruise. Good, I tell myself, it doesn't hurt anymore when I poke it. I wear my shirt and proceed to the kitchen to grab random food to eat. I open the refrigerator door with much force and click my tongue when I find no plates wrapped in plastic or foil signifying it being a left-over from last night. I slam the door shut—hunger is a bitch—and search through the cabinets for at least one decent thing to eat. I pass by the sink and raise my eyebrows as I spot empty and soiled foil containers stacked not so orderly inside it. I lift the cover and—shit, a cockroach—read it: Hungry-Man Buffalo Style Chicken Strips.

They ate TV dinner? God, that woman's starting to get cheaper and cheaper as the days pass. At least it has a free brownie.

I wonder if there's one more pack for me. I check the freezer and feel a smile come to me as my eyes lie upon a meal intended for me. At least they cared enough to not feed it to some stray dog outside our home. I pull it out and—is this a post-it?

Craig,

They were about to feed it to a random cat outside our home. You're welcome.

Ruby

…a cat. Okay. They were about to give it to some stray cat.

I roll my eyes and shove it inside the microwave to heat it up. As it is slowly cooking, I get myself a glass of orange juice and head to the living room to turn the television on—for what else would be the cause of calling it TV dinner? I surf the channels in search for something good and wonder again why only the interesting ones are broadcasted either very early or very late. Red Racer and The Terrence and Philipp Show were the exceptions then. Come to think of it, the shows of yesterday proved better than the shows of this generation. But, of course, times are changing.

Gone are the childhood heroes worthy of looking up to—like Red Racer—replaced by peppy teens. Peppy teens who sing nonsense songs. Peppy teens who sing nonsense songs that cause you brain damage and ear infection. Peppy teens whose songs are more confusing than Empire of the Sun's music video for Standing on the Shore. I can't even believe I compared the band to something so unworthy of such a comparison and contrast.

But what am I doing, wasting my breath, or rather, brain cells, thinking about this worthless revelation?

As if on cue, the microwave timer buzzes and I become aware of my hunger once again. I turn the TV off and fetch my breakfast. I push the 'open' button and, without much thought, reach for it. And you'd wonder why and how my stupidity took control over and mind, then perhaps laugh at me in mockery as I scream in both pain and surprise. Well, in my most polite way, I'd tell you to chop off your fucking dick, shove it in your fucking mouth and sew your fucking lips shut.

"Goddamnit, fucking Christ!" I yell as I squeeze my burnt hand tightly. Seething, I reach for the faucet knob and place my hand through the running water. I sigh, and then I check my wrist watch for the time. 9:07 a.m. Does Harbucks open early on Saturdays, I wonder?

Oh shit, did I just think about Tweek again? Gotta kick that freshman's ass on Monday.

I groan as I turn the tap off, then shake off the excess water. My eyes fall upon my reddish fingers and I mentally kick myself upside the head once again. I then search for an oven mitt—fucking hell, it was on top of the oven all along?!—and use it to take the tray out. I carefully remove the lid and grin widely at the satisfying meal before me. She should really buy TV dinner all the time!

After getting myself utensils, I proceed to the living room to continue my channel surfing. Having nothing to watch, I switch to my last resort: MTV. It shouldn't be called 'my last resort', in fact, because I always end up watching it. And if I was lucky, I would catch the music videos and not those lame shows like that one with some blonde chick with the dog looking for a BFF or that one where people show off their 'kick-ass' homes.

Number one: my god, she's desperate.

Number two: who fucking cares about the three mini-TVs above your Flat screen in your living room? Doesn't that just make people hate you for not using your wealth and time to donate to charity? Thank god Token hasn't been featured. Yet.

And so I spend my time eating my breakfast and rubbing my numb fingers against the cold glass of orange juice while watching hip hop videos that has dominated the music industry since I don't know hell when and has become all too mainstream for my taste. You can't imagine the surprise I had when a Christmas song played between a Chris Brown and a Flo Rida video. My god.

Now, licking my fingers clean of the chocolate from the brownie, I check my watch once again and discover that an hour has passed. Jesus Christ, I ate that slow? Ah well, I have nothing to do today anyways. Well, except tend to the project. And whatever homework I have to do today. But I decide to skip the latter and prioritize the first. Why? I have no fucking idea.

Well if I'm going to keep up this weird state of being that could have resulted to the countless of sleepless nights I had, my burnt fingers and this seriously defunct family I have just realized and cared I have, then I should get a move on and act on my impulse. So I'm going to get myself ready to leave for Harbucks.

Jesus, I don't make sense at all.

~.::.~

You know it sucks if you don't have a heater for your shower when you live in South Park. You swing the door open and let a draft smack you right in the face, then you shiver all over the place as you walk, then you constantly check your hands in fear of being frostbitten, then you could feel the chattering of your teeth, and for a moment, you feel as if you've gone out without putting your glasses on even though you have perfect 20/20 vision.

And then you think—and you can't even believe you had the ability to think at that state: OH MY GOD.

But I congratulate myself in the end for not dying on my way to Harbucks. I just wish I had dried my hair more, so I wouldn't have been at that risk.

Hah. I say that and yet I'm here standing outside Harbucks debating whether or not I should go in.

I wipe a spot on the window and check if he is inside. I could vaguely see him wiping the tables with a mop—what the fuck, a mop? God, what I freak! I clear my throat and breathe out. That may have discouraged me a bit, but I have made my choice clear: I'm going in.

(I mean, come on, it's freezing out here!)

I push the door open and quickly close it behind me. I sigh as I feel my body warming once again. I hear a loud shriek of surprise and I roll my eyes as I say, "Yeah, hello to you too."

I look at him and cock my head to the side when I see that he had slipped on the floor and had broken his mop. From the side, I spot his coworkers snickering at his misfortune. I glare at them then help Tweek up. "And why the heck you were mopping a table?"

He twitches and starts pulling his hair. "Th-They t-told me to—ARGH!" He points to the group still conversing amongst themselves about, perhaps, what a freak Tweek is. I ask then, "and why did you do it?"

"I needed to clean! AUGH! It's my job! GAH!" He screams. I stare at him and sigh at his pathetic state. Then I question myself why it is pity I am feeling when I did things far worse than this.

"Why are you here?" His inquiry breaks my trance, and I find no words to explain what I was really doing here talking to someone I seriously loathed for a long period of time.

"Uh," I start. Then I dig inside my sling bag to retrieve the mug I had done for our project. His eyes widen, and I feel a sense of triumph and pride as I show it off. "I also managed to take pictures now. So I was thinking if we could work on it again?"

Now his eyes shift to stare at me with much confusion and surprise. I sneer at him and say, "Don't look at me like that! You're the artist! I'll make it look like shit. So come on, or I'll hit you—" I stop midsentence, then click my tongue before grabbing his apron to pull him out of the Coffee Shop, pretending not to hear his cries of protest.

"NO—GAH!—DAD'S GOING TO GET M-MAD AT ME! AUGH! JESUS! NO, STOP! I N-NEED TO TELL—ACK!—HIM FIRST!"

"Trust me, he won't mind," I whisper inaudibly.

We enter Color Me Prime and he manages to calm himself down. The man by the counter sees us and greets, "you two again?" He stands up and scratches his side. "Well, as long as I get profit from this." He stretches out his hand in anticipation.

I look at Tweek as he fishes out money from his pockets to give to the owner. I then take my place at the table and stare at the mug. Tweek joins me a few seconds later, and I gently push it towards him. "Do your magic, dude."

"W-what?! I—GAH!—d-don't…don't…" He twitches.

"Come on, you're the 'artist'." I say, fingering the air quotes. "So you paint it."

He gulps and wrings his fingers in embarrassment. "I-I—JESUS!—There's too much pressure! GAH!"

I sigh, running a hand through my hair—and in the process, taking my hat off—as I raise the middle finger at him.

Then I pause and stare at the vulgar gesture as if it is a revelation right in front of my eyes. "That's it."

He calms down as he cocks his head to the side in question.

"This," I tell him, nearing my finger close to his face. He blinks and twitches, then shifts his eyes to stare at me as if I am mad. "Why not? It's the perfect design for our project! We could even give it as a Christmas present to Sr. Shitter," I laugh at my assholicity. God, he'll love that for sure.

He twitches and tugs on his apron. "What?" He points at my finger. "Are you—Nng!—serious?"

I shrug and get up from the table. "Well, if you don't like it, then why don't you think of a better idea while I go ransack the paint bottles?" I leave him to his twitchy self, ignoring his constant bouts of too much pressure as I stare at the dozens of tubes and their respective sample tiles. I honestly cannot picture the end result, and all the more the colors that would complement each other perfectly. So with a heavy sigh, I grab all the bottles I could hold onto and retreat to the table.

He pounces back, mug in hand, in a jolt when I drop everything to the surface. I give him a wry smile and take my seat. "So, get to it then." He bites his bottom lip and shoots me what seems to be a glare. He places the mug down, takes off his Harbucks apron and sits. He lifts the brush up and spins it around his fingers, trying to stare down the project as if willing it to explode using his mind. I get distracted by the paintbrush spin show and bring myself to ask: "What the hell are you doing?"

He gives me a sideways glance. "Visualizing."

"That's how you visualize?" I ask, amused grin plastered onto my face.

"I'm restless."

"As I've gathered for the past—" I look up to the ceiling, calculating in my head. "—12 years?"

He reaches for bottles now, inspecting each one carefully. I click my tongue and stare at the folly of my actions. "I've just realized how hard it's going to be to put them back at their right places."

"Even harder to know which one we need to use," he says constantly gripping at bottles, giving them a closer look and then setting them down at the floor until two tubes are left. He heaves a sigh and I lift my eyebrows questioningly.

"Pick one, blue or green?"

I snort and bite back a sarcastic remark. "If you ask me, you should know I'd choose blue."

"I know," he says in a whisper. All of a sudden, he starts shifting from a calm and focused person into a stuttering spaz. "But if it were up to me, I'd be choosing green, and I wasn't sure if you'd like that color, so I looked for the right blue just in case—you know, that shade you always wear—but I really wanted green, so I asked you even though I knew you'd choose blue, and I just needed to get away from all this pressure and—OH GOD, THE PRESSURE—"

To save myself from a massive headache and the possibility of watching Tweek have a complete breakdown, or worse, have him explode into a disgusting mess, I quickly—by that, I mean without much thought whatsoever—push his shoulders, causing him to stumble backwards from his chair to the floor.

He twitches and stares at me with his big brown eyes, blinking all too fast. I click my tongue, mentally kicking myself in the ass. I hurriedly crouch beside him and help him up gently, perhaps making up for the rashness. "Sorry," I mutter sincerely. "You want me to get ice from Harbucks?"

He shakes his head as he takes his seat. I raise an eyebrow. "Doesn't it hurt?"

He glances towards me for half a second. He murmurs something almost impossible for me to hear. "I'm used to it."

I sigh and, avoiding any further discussion, take my seat. I then tap a beat on the table, drowning out my thoughts. Sometimes, it worked that way, but only if I considered the situation too public for a sudden belt out of a song. Once I've blocked out unnecessary thoughts, I turn to him and ask: "Why don't you just use both?"

"What?" He asks, tugging on his hair before pulling a face. "They don't blend well."

I shrug. "Worth a try. Can you use a different shade?"

Tweek scoops up the entire pile of bottles on the floor and searches for the right colors. I pick up the mug too keep it safe from accidentally falling off from all the fuss he's making and stare at it for a while. "Why do they hate you…?" My eyes widen at the sudden question that has escaped from my lips.

He looks up and twitches. "What?"

"Aren't you the son of their boss?" I clear my throat, then give him a sideways glance. "You should be the last person on their black book."

He shrugs and tucks his hair behind his ear to inspect two paint bottles up close. "That doesn't really matter to them."

Right, because apparently, your dad doesn't give a shit about you, so why should they? Why did you have to ask, Craig?

"Here," he places the bottles down before spinning his paintbrush around his fingers once more.

Rather than help him 'visualize', I pop a question with no hesitation whatsoever. "Don't you know how to box?"

And perhaps I shouldn't have asked it when I witness the snapping of the brush into two in his hand. He bites his lip and draws out a small amount of blood.

"Hey," I call out, patting him on the shoulder. "No need to overreact. Jesus Christ, snap out of it!"

He shakes his head and picks up another brush on the table. "Let's—Let's just get to this…"

I breathe out and lean closer to the table. He opens the lid of the bottle and squirts blue paint out. Dabbing the brush with it, he gets ready to do his artsy magic, but stops midair where he begins to shake and twitch. I ignore this and keep staring. But no later did he start grabbing his blond hair and yelling out: "Gah! Too much pressure!"

"What, I wasn't doing anything!"

"Just—" He sighs. "Just stop staring!"

"Well, what do you want me to do?"

"GAH! I don't know! ERG!"

I groan and throw my head backwards to stare at the ceiling. I'd like to talk during awkward moments. I sometimes feel as if I'm the one saving the world from gay babies.

No, don't take that as an offense. There has been a running joke about how 'In every awkward silence, a gay baby is born'. I have no clue where it originated. Basically, it stuck. Not once have any of us failed to mutter the words 'gay baby' whenever the awkwardness comes. It's starting to become a habit.

"Oh wait, I just remembered something." I dig into my bag and bring out my camera. "Gotta take pictures. Thank you, Token."

Tweek freezes and starts hyperventilating. I frown, "What's up? It's for the stupid project, not for publicity." I focus the camera at the right angle. "Unless, you know, you have some sort of camera phobia. If there is one." I press the button, smiling inwardly as the image appears at the screen. "Or if it's your not being so photogenic…"

He gulps. "That and…" I look at him, showing that he's got my full attention. He sighs. "I've had bad experiences with cameras."

"Reasonable enough an excuse," I snicker. I took a few more shots before letting boredom overwhelm me. He try observing his every move; his focused gaze upon the mug, his swift hand motions as he paints over it and, most importantly, his calm state. I'd hate to break that heavy concentration.

…Nah, just kidding.

"Can I talk?" I ask. "Hope it's not pressuring you."

I received a twitch as a reply.

Works for me. "All right, then, tell me about those dicks you work with." I sit up straight before continuing, "Gives me more reason to understand exactly why you agreed to mop a table—and I ain't letting that go just yet."

"They always do that," he says, painting over the entire mug blue with much expertise. "You want me to beat them up?" I propose. He shoots me a look of surprise and yells out a firm 'no'.

"Why not?" It's an honest question.

"Why'd you want to—ERG!—do that?" He holds out his hand, beckoning for the hair dryer.

I shrug. "Why'd you work there, anyway?" I ask as I hand it over, making sure it is plugged. "Can't be for the money. Unless your dad hates you that much to not give you your daily allowance. Is it something to keep you occupied, rather than go out with girls or lose your mind over Arcade games?"

His reply is drowned out by the loud whirring of the dryer, and I couldn't quite make out what he said. "Could you run that by me again?"

He turns it off and stares at the blue mug. "He wanted me to."

I scoff. "He just wanted you to." He nods. "And did you have any say in this?"

"He's my dad. I'll do anything." His voice trails off for a bit and stares into space for perhaps a split second before grabbing the next paint bottle.

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'll classify that as child labor." Surprisingly, I note the seriousness in my voice. Hell knows if I was trying to be so.

He retorts, painting alphanumeric symbols onto the mug. "I never said I didn't want to."

I lift my eyebrow quizzically at him, then I chuckle once realization hit me. "It's the free coffee, isn't it?"

He twitches. "Well, what else? JESUS! What's so funny?"

My smile falters. I didn't exactly know why I was laughing. It's certainly not because of the revelation of his dad's real motive for having Tweek work in his coffee shop—that being his dad wanting to, perhaps, kill him from the excessive intake of caffeine. It could be the thought of Tweek falling for it completely, perhaps unaware or ignorant of the said psycho plan.

Maybe it's how easy it is to see through Tweek. Such a predictable, spazzy freak.

I look at him and am surprised to see him waiting for an explanation. I wave my hand dismissively and change the subject. "You know, it's weird seeing you so…" I pause, choosing my next word carefully. Of course, I wouldn't care for careful. "…normal, when you're working with art."

He lifts his head up and twitches. "N-No-Normal?"

"I've said it too many times, man, you're a wreck."

"Yeah, well that's from all the shit you put me through."

My eyes could almost pop out of its sockets hearing that outburst coming from Tweek. He seems surprised by his own ebullition and starts to spaz out, swearing and attempting to grow bald in the next five minutes. I reach out and grab his shoulders and try shaking him out of his trance. This would take a while.

~.::.~

We stare at the final result, both of us beaming at how great it looks especially with the different alphanumeric symbols at the background accentuating the main focus: the hand showing the birdie.

"At least we managed to finish it," I laugh.

He finally hands it over to the old geezer and we head out the store. More people are now hustling and bustling about along the streets. I pull my sleeve up to check the time. No wonder, it's almost noon.

Tweek peers inside Harbucks and sees the number of customers that filled the entire café. "Nng! I'll be yelled at for sure! ACK!" He puts on his apron and fiddles with the string at the back. "I'll do it," I offer, spinning him around not as gently as I hoped and tie the strings together.

"N-not too tight!" He screams.

"Chill," I tell him before I pat his back. "There you go."

He turns to face me and whispers a 'thank you' before asking if I wanted anything. I look through the window and reply, "I'm not so fond of crowded places." He twitches and glances at the same window. "Me neither."

"See, I told you you shouldn't have worked here," I snicker. "Not even for free coffee."

"But dad…"

I cut him off, but I did so without much thinking and consideration. "Should have received a good punch in the face with your boxing move." I touched my left eye. "I can't forget how long this had to heal."

He froze in place, staring at me with a look I couldn't comprehend. He didn't shiver, he didn't twitch; I wasn't even sure if he was breathing.

"Are you okay?" I ask.

He slowly lowers his gaze to the ground.

I clear my throat. "Well… okay, see you, Tweek."

He snaps his head back up to look at me with his giant eyes that, if he isn't too careful, may pop out of their sockets before quickly opening the entrance door and disappearing amidst the caffeine-addicted crowd inside the café.

I stand in place, jaw hanging in shock and confusion. What the hell did I just say? Oh wait, mental kick. I called him 'Tweek'. Still not used to the change, huh?

Maybe I shouldn't have brought up such 'sensitive' topics. Well, that's me. Craig Tucker. World's Greatest Asshole since 1999.

I grunt and start walking away from the jam-packed shop, towards wherever my feet would take me.

I end up at the park, watching kids skating at Stark's pond, couples walking hand-in-hand, old ladies feeding pigeons… the same old scene.

Except there is something I wasn't expecting to see that moment.

"Kenny and Butters?" I say with my scrutiny. This calls their attention and they smile and wave at me. I walk closer at them.

"Fancy meeting you here, Craig Tucker," Kenny greets. "Never imagined you as a park person."

"Of course I'm not a park person," I tell him. "I hate South Park with my guts."

"Did your parents kick you out yet?"

I roll my eyes. "No. I'd kick their asses out first." I look at Butters, idly watching the birds fly up in the air. "Why are you with Butters?"

He smiles, trying to conceal the lasciviousness that came with it. "Just hanging out on a Saturday morning."

"Yeah," Butters suddenly pipes. "Do you want to join us, Craig? The more the merrier!"

"No, I don't want to intrude on your lovely date." I stifle a smirk.

Butters blinks at me with confusion. "Date? What date?"

The smile disappears from Kenny's face in disappointment, then shoots me a look. I just shrug and tell him, "Oh, never mind. Sure, I'll come with. It's not like I've got anything better to do." This earns a glare from the blond.

The three of us start to walk. "So, what are you doing here, Craig?" Butters asks.

"I just came from Harbucks."

Kenny cocks his head to the side. "Harbucks?"

"Yeah." I reply. "I was just with Tweek doing—"

"Whoa," Kenny breathes out. "They weren't lying when they told us you said his name." He snickers. "I'm impressed."

"Wait, who?"

"Clyde and Token."

I sigh with much exasperation. "Assholes."

"So…why?"

"Why what?"

"Why the hell are you using his name?" He gives me a stern look. I raise my eyebrows questioningly. Annoyed, he says, "Dude, you hate him. I don't know who died and replaced the bastard you were to you-who-said-his-name. Sorry if you can't catch on, Butters."

Butters shakes his head. "No, it's okay fellas. It's none of my business."

"Exactly," I say, stopping in my tracks and shoving Kenny to the side. "And neither is it yours, Ken."

He sneers. "Fine, douchebag."

"Whore."

"I thought we were spouting insults."

"No, we're stating the obvious."

"Now, don't start fighting fellas!" Butters intervenes, holding Kenny's arm firmly.

"We won't, Butters," Kenny answers, eyes not tearing away from me. "I don't want to die again because of him."

"It was an accident!" I yell. "Plus, it was Cartman who let go of that hammer!"

"Yeah, 'cause you knocked him down, which I have no problem with, except for the fact that I got sawed through!"

"How many times do I have to say that I didn't mean it and I'm sorry?"

Butters' plead alarms us both because of the firmness in his voice. "Enough!"

Kenny stares at Butters, his look softening into concern. I grunt at the both of them. "Maybe I should leave."

Kenny snaps out of his trance and glowers at me once again. "Yeah, that will be great, thanks."

With a turn of my heel, I stride away, anger slowly subduing inside me as the distance between me and those two fags lengthens. But I know that won't be the end of it. What was I thinking, that the guys would perfectly understand and not care that I start calling the Spaz by his real name? How could I even explain this sudden change that I never would have imagined would come?

I shove all thoughts aside, postponing it for Monday. We'll see what happens then.

My phone rings and I dig it out of my pocket. I stare at the screen, debating whether or not I should take it. I breathe out and click the green phone button.

"Hello?" I say with much uncertainty.

"Hey Craig," Clyde greets.

"What's up?" I ask, kicking a small stone out of the road.

"Stan called. He said to go to his house to talk about our Christmas plans."

Christmas. That word replays in my head as I stare blankly at the smoke coming out of my mouth as I exhale.

"Be there at around One. See ya?" he asks.

"Yeah, sure." I answer, almost to myself.

He hangs up after a few seconds later, and I continue staring at particularly nothing at all but the air surrounding me.

And I murmur once again, "Christmas."

Further Author's Notes: World's Greatest Asshole Since 1999 because the episode aired at that year.

Haha. Craig's so dense. We'll see what happens next. Pray that it won't be long before I upload again. D: You guys don't know how busy I am these days…weeks…months. I'm just hoping you guys won't give up on me. Tell me you won't give up on me! DX Thank you for the continuous support, all of you. :) Read and Review, please!