A/N:
:D
It takes all of seven minutes for Red to go through her explanation as to why exactly Craig is suddenly in the position he's currently in, and by the end of it he's only retained approximately two percent of her words. Something about some guy named Kevin, his boyfriend or ex boyfriend or friend with dubious benefits or some shit, an obsession with musicals, and a whole dramatic monologue about how it's "fucking destiny" that "Tweekerbell" had brought him and how Craig is "their fucking knight in shining Red Racer armor".
And for just a second during that monologue, Craig forgets that he should be completely freaking out, because Jesus, how nice is it to hear that you're someone's savior? That second lasts almost less than a second though, because right after making that proclamation, Red thrusts a bunch of papers in his hand and tells him he has two minutes to look over the script while she goes to check on Lola and Tweek.
Craig looks down at the sheet of paper on top of the pile he's barely managing to hold onto and gulps, a shudder radiating through his entire system. Red Racer! The Musical! The words on the page stare back up at him almost mockingly, the cheery bright red color of the font two shades above blinding. Of course it's the direct-to-DVD horribly low-budget companion musical version of the first Red Racer movie that these fucking theater kids decided to put on, and not the original nostalgic comfort version of Craig's childhood. Of. Fucking. Course.
Why is he even surprised? Given the events of the past two days, it's obvious that he's the victim of some government conspiracy that's testing the effects of nonstop humiliation on the human body. Nothing else makes sense.
Craig resists the urge to immediately crumple up the papers in his fist, and instead flips through them reluctantly, skimming each page as he goes. Just as a refresher, because, not that he would admit this to anyone else in existence, he knows all the words. It comes with the territory of being the president of the South Park branch of the official Red Racer fan club – he's still got the card shoved somewhere in his wallet and everything. What kind of fan club president would he be if he didn't make it a point to be well-versed in all forms of Red Racer media, no matter how terrible?
And, God, is the musical ever terrible.
Craig pauses to actually read a little bit of the dialogue and physically cringes. He'd known it was bad, but Jesus Christ, something about seeing the words written down just makes his skin crawl. It's worse writing than some of the shit that happens on those dumbass totally-not-scripted-wink-wink reality shows that Clyde was obsessed with back in high school. Somehow, whoever had adapted the movie to be a musical – someone named D.R. Hawthorne, if Craig remembers correctly – had managed to completely fuck up a perfectly decent story about a hero and a villain having a race to the death.
Okay, so the original movie isn't without its flaws. Maybe there are gaping plot holes and continuity errors for days, useless characters introduced in the third act for no reason and, yeah, sure, it definitely has its own fair share of cringey dialogue; but at least it doesn't try to pretend that there's some big dramatic wannabe-heartbreaking backstory behind why Red Racer and Speed Demon are mortal enemies.
As Clyde would say, not that Craig would ever be caught dead talking like this, "It's not that deep, bro."
Instead of keeping things simple and to the point, the musical is a convoluted, ridiculous, trainwreck of a production. First of all, it's at least forty-five minutes longer than the original movie, so every time Craig watches it, which he does at least once every six months, it's two hours and twelve minutes of his life he'll never get back.
Second, half of the dialogue is sung; not as in, half the dialogue is expressed through actual songs, but as in the characters just randomly start singing parts of what would normally just be spoken words. The one time Craig had tried to get Clyde to watch it, they'd both been drunk on cheap vodka and cheaper jello shots, but even halfway-to-plastered Clyde had declared it the worst musical he'd ever seen and proclaimed that nothing good could come of its existence in the universe.
Of course, after that night, Clyde had started singing all of his actions because he'd discovered that it annoyed Craig to no end, so he'd clearly changed his mind on that last part pretty quickly.
Third, and what Craig considers to be the absolute worst part of everything, the thing that's making his stomach take another ride on the Tilt-A-Whirl of his insides, is that there's a rap battle that takes place right before the big climactic race. Because what government conspiracy isn't complete without a rap battle?
"Okay! Ready?" Red materializes out of thin air next to Craig's right shoulder, the sudden appearance of unnaturally red hair in his peripheral vision startling the hell out of him. He doesn't make any sort of weird yelping noise or jump and fall on his face or anything though – why can't he be this chill around Tweek?
Fuck, Tweek. Tweek, who had so graciously agreed to also help out and take on the other lead role. Craig had been so preoccupied with how he is guaranteed to fuck up the whole musical aspect of things that he hadn't been thinking about the fact that not only does he have to make an idiot out of himself playing Red Racer on stage, he has to do it in front of the guy he's just spent the better part of the last 24 hours fantasizing about. The same guy who thinks he's a creepy weirdo – and is perfectly within his rights to believe that, if Craig's honest with himself.
And the same guy that Craig is ninety percent sure is dating that Lola girl. Judging by the way Tweek had rushed to comfort her and the way she'd hugged him not fifteen minutes earlier, there has to be something there. And why wouldn't there be? Who wouldn't fall in love with Tweek immediately upon meeting him? Hell, Craig's already halfway there and he's only known the guy for less than two days. His chest aches for a moment, like someone has reached inside him, grabbed his heart, and slammed it against his ribcage as hard as possible, and he asks himself again just what the fuck he thinks he's doing here.
"Actually–" Craig starts to say that he hadn't been thinking, that he can't do this after all, and that he's done with the government using him as a test subject guinea pig – although maybe on second thought, he should keep that last part to himself.
He doesn't get the chance to finish his sentence, though, because without waiting for a real answer to her question, Red grabs the papers out of his hands. Looping her arm through his, she practically drags Craig across the floor until they're right next to the entrance to stage left.
"Lola's gonna be right at the front of the stage, she'll give you all your cues. Kelly's handling the music, and the other Kelly's doing lighting – let me know if she fucks up and shines it right in your eyes, it's been a bitch trying to teach her how to do it properly." Red sighs heavily and rolls her eyes before reaching out and yanking Craig's chullo right off of his head. "I'll keep this safe for you. Break a leg, Red Racer!"
With that, she gives him a not-so gentle shove forward, and Craig stumbles gracelessly out onto the stage, blinking against the harsh white lights shining down on him from above. He raises a hand, awkwardly trying to adjust his horrible fucking hat hair, the loss of his beloved chullo making him feel so naked that he actually has to look down at himself to verify that yes, he's still wearing clothing. Beads of sweat form on his forehead, glistening in the lights, and he swipes his hand across his face; wiping the moisture onto his pants, he takes a deep breath, willing his body to chill the fuck out.
Both luckily and unluckily for Craig, Red Racer is alone for the beginning of the first non-montage scene. It means he at least has a minute or two to try to get himself oriented. Unfortunately, it also means that all eyes are on only him; and even though the few people in attendance can barely be called an audience, the idea that anyone is focused on him gives Craig an uncomfortable as fuck knot of anxiety deep in the pit of his stomach.
"Uh," he says, eloquently, squinting out at the rows upon rows of empty seats in front of him, completely blanking on what the fuck his first line is. Shit. Okay, fuck, okay, come on Tucker. You know this, you got this. He's seen this thing a billion times, why the fuck can't he remember how it starts? He closes his eyes, desperately trying to visualize the opening scene while also doing his best not to puke out of sheer nervousness.
There's a shot of a fancy red velvet curtain at the very beginning, he's pretty sure, because that was the cool way at the time to differentiate between just a movie and a musical extravaganza. Craig hates that word, extravaganza. He thinks it sounds ridiculous, but, as the Red Racer musical is nothing but ridiculous, he supposes it fits.
After the curtain lifts, the opening credits play over...something. What is it? Craig racks his brain frantically, inwardly screaming at himself so loud he's sure the whole auditorium should be able to hear him. Come on, come on, do something, you stupid useless fucking–
A racetrack. And cars. Cars zooming around a racetrack. Craig breathes a silent sigh of relief as the memories flood his mind. Right, it starts with a race to save the city from some other entirely undeveloped villain character who's only in the movie for two minutes to make Red Racer look good. How the fuck had he managed to forget that? It's so typical: they have an encounter, the villain challenges Red Racer to a race, the villain loses and goes to jail, Red Racer celebrates. It's the same basic plot of the first five minutes of every single episode of the show.
From there, the movie cuts to the scene that Craig has to act out now. Fuck. Well, if he's going to go ahead and make a fucking fool out of himself, now's the time. It's not like he's not used to it by now. And it's not like anything he does now will affect Tweek's opinion of him that much. He probably doesn't even think about Craig much at all.
That thought hits him like a knife right to the heart and he wonders if it's possible for him to transfer to the community college in Denver after Christmas break.
Craig takes a hesitant step forward, his voice cracking when he speaks his first line. "Boy," he says, putting as much enthusiasm into his words as he can. "That race sure was a doozy!" Jesus Christ, has his voice always sounded like that? It's so fucking nasally his whole face might as well be a giant nose.
What's he supposed to do now? Oh. Yeah. "Well, there's only one way to cure those post-race blues!" God, at least Clyde isn't here to see this. He'd kill his phone's battery taking a video of the whole thing just to make sure he could torture Craig with it for years to come.
Craig walks to the other end of the stage and mimes opening a cupboard and pulling out a box. "There's nothing like a nice big bowl of Racer Flakes to put you in a better mood!" Somewhere in the old storage unit his parents had rented for him to keep his stuff in before they moved, he actually has a real box of Racer Flakes, unopened, one of only 82 ever produced.
Craig pauses, invisible cereal box in hand, awkwardly eyeing the completely empty space around him; he's only just realized there are absolutely no props or furniture to be found, including anywhere to sit down.
"Psst!"
Craig looks up to see Lola gesturing at him from the front row of seats. She waves her arms towards the edge of the stage. By some miracle, Craig picks up on what that means right away, and he lets his shaky legs carry him forward until he's able to sit on the edge, criss-crossing his legs beneath him. He pretends to set down the nonexistent Racer Flakes box beside him, and then mimes holding a bowl and a spoon.
He hesitates before his next line, because it's one of the random singsong line exchanges that comes right before the first full musical number, and he's really not looking forward to doing it. It's not that he's the worst singer; Clyde has dragged him out to enough stupid karaoke bars that Craig has managed to clock enough vocal practice hours so he no longer sounds like a seagull dying a painful, Shakespearan death. But he's definitely not the best singer in the world, and as pathetic as it is, Craig has always had trouble admitting when he's not the best at something.
He swallows nervously, his throat all of a sudden painfully dry, like he's just eaten a bunch of sandpaper. Wiping the sweat from his forehead again, Craig runs his hand through his hair, wishing like crazy that he hadn't had his hat rudely snatched away from him.
He opens his mouth, but instead of words, only a weird gravelly croak comes out; cheeks flaming as red as Red Racer's signature racecar, Craig clears his throat harshly before trying again. "Anytime you're feeling down, there's only one thing to do?" His voice rises on the last word, unintentionally making it a question, and his stomach sinks a little bit, because he knows things can only get worse.
"You can eat a snack, but watch your back, because Speed Demon's coming for you!"
When Tweek's voice fills the air from behind him, Craig's stomach drops all the way to the fucking sub-basement of the community college because oh, fuck. Tweek can sing. And his voice is fucking beautiful.
At this point in the musical, Red Racer is supposed to jump up from the table, and confront Speed Demon, who's broken into his house to challenge him to a death race. Craig's version of Red Racer can barely even breathe right now, let alone stand. He places both hands flat onto the stage on either side of his body and attempts to push himself up; but, being as graceful as ever, his feet get tangled together and he tips over.
"Fuck," he grunts, as much under his breath as he can manage, hurriedly scrambling to his feet. He looks up at Tweek, his next line on the tip of his tongue, but every single thought in his brain disappears at the sight of him. Craig doesn't know where the fuck these theater kids got their hands on a movie-accurate version of Speed Demon's outfit, but holy fucking shit can Tweek ever pull it off.
Craig would fucking kill to pull it off him…
He shakes his head, feeling like he's either going to cry, faint, or both. He knows his eyes are open far too wide, and that he's staring, and that it's been way too long since he's said something, and, fuck, he's supposed to sing something right now; but how the hell can he be expected to remember anything when Tweek is in front of him in a fucking leather bodysuit that fits him perfectly with one hand on his hip, God, those hips that are Craig's fucking ultimate weakness and Jesus Christ, it's so fucking hot in this auditorium, someone should really turn down the heat in here, like that's even possible with Tweek in the room, he's hot enough to heat up a whole house, hell, Tweek could probably heat up the entire town right now, and, wait, where did those stars come from, stars aren't supposed to be inside, but hang on, he shouldn't even be able to see the stars anyway, not with the way the lights keep dimming, who did Red say was in charge of the lights, he's going to have to say something to her about it, there's no way he can go through with this, not with the light problems and the stars everywhere and Tweek looking fucking incredible–
"Uh-oh," Craig squeaks, a second before his eyes roll back in his head and he passes out, collapsing in a heap in the middle of the stage.