Author's Note: I'm trying to make up for updating so slow on the last chapter, so I'm posting two chapters in a row. Please review! Oh, and to those who like Fallout boy, I'm sorry for all the bashing. I just couldn't help myself, so please don't be too mad at me!

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Kenny's POV

When the movie was finished, Damien left to go to his room, while I slept on the couch. Or at least, I tried. I couldn't really fall asleep because I kept hearing music playing from his room. Goddamn emo, how was I supposed to sleep when he had stupid Fallout boy on his radio full blast? The singer's voice was even more annoying than Damien's was, a feat hard to accomplish. I stared at the ceiling, willing myself to fall asleep.

After a while, I'm still awake and I get off the couch, heading toward Damien's room. There is no way I'm going to put up with any more of this shitty music. Not even bothering to knock, I burst into his room, ready to yell at him for having such poor emo taste in music. I wasn't expecting him to be changing and instead of yelling, I just stood there, staring at him with my mouth open. Because underneath all those layers of black clothes, he was hot. I mean really hot. I continued to stare at him in just his boxers, first looking at his muscled arms, then at his well toned chest and six-pack. Whoa. I had no idea. Even Stan-the-football-player-quarterback wasn't this buff.

"What?" Damien asked, giving me a weird look.

"Err…nothing, just, uh, never mind…" Was it me, or did I just experience a weird sense of déjà vu? No, it wasn't just me; this was like a weird replay of the scene that happened about an hour ago. Damn you, Damien, for throwing me off!

Before Damien can ask me another question, I step outside his room and practically slam the door, almost running down the stairs. I'm not sure what the hell just happened, but my face was burning up and I hoped to god that he hadn't seen it.

I went back to the couch, closing my eyes and trying to fall asleep again. Eventually, the music starts to fade and I finally fall asleep, thinking that tomorrow I'd be able to leave this place. For some reason, the thought didn't make me as happy as it usually did.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Cartman's POV

"Kenney, where were you last night? Mole made me do a hundred pushups because you weren't there to stop him!" I scowl at him. My arms are sore and I can barely lift them, otherwise I probably would've socked Kenny by now. It was his fault that I had been stuck with Mole the rest of the day because the bastard ditched me.

"Hell," he replies, and I give him a weird look. Maybe he means that it was hell at home, because his parents are always fighting and he never got anything to eat (unless you counted a frozen waffle for dinner and vodka for dessert).

"Okaayyyy….."

"Where's Mole?" he asks, changing the subject.

"Ugh, who cares about that French piece of shit, just be glad he's not here right now." As if on cue, my door suddenly bursts open, and the bastard walks in my room. He has the Shovel again. The Shovel, not just any shovel but the Shovel, the special sharp and pointy one he carries around whenever he wants to "train" me. Some training; It's more like torture. I swear, the evil look he gets in his eyes whenever he watches me do back-breaking sit-ups and extremely painful pushups creeps me out. It's obvious he could care less about helping me; he probably gets off on watching me suffer. Still, at least his "training" actually helps. I've lost about sixty pounds since we've started, and yesterday I had gone up to Wendy and asked her out. And she said yes. She said yes. I told Stan all about it, rubbing it in his face, but he didn't even seem to care. Seriouslay, I think something might be wrong with him. Normally, that was something he'd be really upset about. I had almost hoped he'd be so depressed that he'd turn emo again, and then I could take pictures of him and call him a fag. Instead, he hadn't even blinked, just sat there, not even looking away from his stupid video game. Something was wrong with him, alright.

"Vat are you thinking of, fat boy?" The stupid bastard interrupts my thoughts.

"I'm thinking, 'What the hell is that French piece of shit doing at my house? Doesn't he know I hate goddamn Frenchies?'" Stupid bastard scowls at me, and I saw him raise his shovel a little. That couldn't be a good sign. Maybe I should've just kept my mouth shut.

"Fifty seet-ups! On ze floor, NOW!" I really hated Frenchies. Specially this one in particular.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

End of chapter five