Chapter Six: Going to the Lordy

Back in the audience, Kyle nudged his mother. "This is Kenny's big scene."

Kenny bounced on in his Guiteau costume. He was supposed to be showing Bebe Stevens, as Sarah Jane Moore, how to aim and fire a gun. In the process, he was supposed to be trying to feel Moore up.

Kenny loved this scene. So did Bebe. They had rehearsed it a lot. In fact, come to think of it, Kyle mused, they'd even practiced it a lot without the dialogue. Behind the school.

Onstage, Kenny put his arms around Bebe, helping her to "steady the gun." He rubbed up against her.

"Mmm-hmmph, mmm hmmm mmm-hmm hmmhmm-hmm hehmmmph. Hm hm hm hm hm hmm mm hmmm mmm mmm hmph hmm-bmm-mm-mm hm mmmmmmmm?" ("You know, you're a very attractive woman. How would you like to be the wife of the next ambassador to France?")

Goddamn it, Kenny, Kyle thought.

Stan and Wendy watched Kenny from the wings. They seemed much more relaxed around each other now. Kenny was at the foot of an immense gallows with a long staircase.

(I am going to the Lordy . . .) sang Kenny. In fact, it was more like a hum, though at least it was a nice musical hum and you could tell it was a hymn.

"You think it was a mistake to give Kenny a musical solo?" Stan asked, and Wendy giggled.

"Well, maybe—but look how much he's enjoying it. He certainly can bounce up and down those stairs." And that was the truth: Kenny bounced up and down the stairs both feet at a time and the audience was clearly loving it. "And Big Gay Al sings a lot of the song, anyway."

It was a nice, upbeat number. Charles Guiteau, the assassin of President James Garfield, had gone to the gallows a happy camper, convinced that he would be pardoned and that he would be the next President of the United States. He was an utter fruit loop but it was unquestionably fun to watch onstage.

"You know, Stan," Wendy said tentatively.

"Yeah?"

"I didn't like saying all those mean things to you onstage. It was just acting. I didn't mean it."

"Well, what about Cartman? Was that acting, too?"

"What do you mean?" She sounded genuinely puzzled. "Oh! You mean all that 'let me tear my heart in two' stuff? Stan, no! That was Squeaky Fromme. She was obsessed with Charles Manson. Does that sound like a healthy relationship to you? Does that sound like something I would say about anybody?"

"I don't know," said Stan. "You do seem pretty obsessed with Cartman."

"Stan, I—"

"Let me finish. I meant every single word, Wendy. I am unworthy of your love, and I wish I could turn your love to me, and—and I don't know how."

Wendy just looked at him. It was hard to read her expression in the dark. Her voice, however, was gentle.

"Stan—that's the sweetest thing I've ever heard."

Her face drew closer to his—and closer---

"BLEAGH!"

"Ew, gross!"

Stan moved her away from the vomit. "Sorry, Wendy." He looked up just in time to see Kenny singing his last triumphal bits of the song and waving his hands in the air. He stepped off the platform. It was supposed to be a fake hanging. But something had gone horribly wrong . . .

"Oh, my God," whispered Stan. "They killed Kenny!" From the auditorium he could faintly hear Kyle yelling "You bastards!"

Wendy pulled Stan closer, before he had a chance to throw up again.

Cartman also saw the hanging from backstage. Too bad for Kenny, but he was pretty philosophical about this kind of thing now. "Who didn't see that coming," he muttered. At least it was almost intermission and they'd have plenty of time to clean things up before they went on with the show. Kyle would probably be coming backstage to deal with it and he wanted to get away from Kyle and as close to Wendy as possible. He skidded on something in the dark.

"What the—Gross!" he snapped, as he realized he had skidded in somebody's vomit.

Wait a minute . . .

Who threw up all the time? Stan. And Stan threw up when he was in love. Much as Cartman wished Stan would fall for Kyle and that then they would both stay out of his hair, to date Stan only vomited for girls. And that meant . . .

Cartman slinked around the wings, keeping low and close to the black curtains. If anybody had been watching him, they would have been startled to see just how much he looked like John Wilkes Booth at the Ford Theater, right before he gave Lincoln a splitting headache.

He slid around the last upstage wing.

There was Wendy. And she was all over Stan. Neither of them saw him.

For a millisecond, Cartman looked astonishingly like Stan had earlier in the evening, eyes empty, face blank, utterly lost. But only for a millisecond. The next second, he was back to looking like Snidely Whiplash. He looked as though he were about to say, "Curses! Foiled again!" He slipped back around and out to the cafeteria, where all the props and costumes were being held. By God, somebody was going to hurt for this before the evening was over.

"GODDAMN IT!"

"Wuh-well, hi, Eric!" A little blond figure popped up in front of him. "I'm all ready now! Hey—anythin' wrong?" Butters looked anxious, but not for the show: for his friend—well, his kinda friend—Eric Cartman. He looked like something awful bad must have happened.

A different person might actually have told Butters what had happened. Butters would have been happy to listen. In fact, though Cartman didn't know this, because he'd never bothered to ask, Butters knew heartbreak firsthand and he would have been a very sympathetic and helpful listener. But Cartman was not about to admit to weakness, especially to a crying little pussy like Butters. Instead, his eyes narrowed as he did a few quick calculations. Let's see, he needed the tools—he had the time—and he could use Butters. PERFECT. Kyle's show ruined, total panic, pain, misery to the nth degree, and sweet little Butters causing more chaos than Professor Chaos ever had before.

"No," Cartman said, and smiled. "Everything's fine." And it wasn't a lie.