An eerie silence fell over the room. No one knew what to say. Tweek had never been in a situation like this before. It sounded cocky, but it was true. He was only ever turned down by straight men, and even then he still sometimes managed to seal the deal. Whether it was because of his appearance, his profession, or his moderate fame around the Greater Denver area, Tweek was not accustomed to the idea of "he's just not that into you".

Tweek stared at the phone screen. He continued to read the conversation Craig had had with this so-called WrestleChamp99, his face blank.

Then, a twitch.

It was small at first—a blink-and-you'll-miss-it sort of movement at the corner of his mouth. The next one was bigger, at the corner of his left eye. The third one caused his entire left eye to shut. The band held their breath, wondering when Mount Tweek was going to explode.

"Ngh, it's fine. It's fine!" said Tweek. "Really! It's totally fine! I get that not everyone is going to be attracted to me, that's fine, that's normal! It's cool. I'm cool with it!"

Silence followed.

"Really?" Clyde broke the silence, like an idiot.

"Totally! I'm a big boy, I can—ngh—handle a little rejection!" Sporadic physical tics appeared throughout Tweek's face as he talked. His breathing was getting faster, and his friends could tell his arms were beginning to shake. "Damn, what you guys must think of me if you don't think I can't be normal around Craig after this. I'm a motherfucking professional! In fact, I'm going to go bring him his phone back right now and congratulate him!"

Tweek stood up and made a hard walk for the dressing room door. Kenny eyed Craig's phone still lying on the chair where Tweek had been sitting. He looked back up to see Tweek disappear into the hallway, the door swinging shut in his wake.

The four men sat in silence. They heard the door to the adjacent dressing room open and slam closed. Then, a gut-wrenching scream. Clyde cringed.

Token sighed. "At least he's still in the building," said Token. "The last thing I'd want to do is run around Boise looking for him. Wendy would never let us live it down."

"He's such a bad liar," said Kenny, shaking his head. He picked up Craig's phone and stuffed it into his pocket. "I'll give it back to Craig later. I'm the one who found it, after all."

"So...I fucked up, huh?" Clyde said quietly.

Token got up from the couch and walked over to put his arm around Clyde. "Eh, not really. You know how Tweek gets. He tries to hide his anxiety until it spills over and he has a full-blown panic attack. Then to cope, he hides in his room for several hours."

"Yeah, I know that. But do we have several hours for him to recover from this? What if he's not ready to come out by show time? Or what if he strains his voice screaming? Or what if he's exhausted and too tired to perform?! Oh god, I did fuck this up!"

"Nope nope nope!" Kenny said, running over to Clyde and Token. "We can't have you spiraling out into a panic attack, too!" Kenny held out his hands on either side of Clyde's face and gently slapped his cheeks. "How about we tune up and jam?"

Clyde sniffed and wiped away the tears from his eyes. "Yeah, okay."

Jimmy hoisted himself up on his crutches and joined his band brothers. "Hey, no matter what happens to Tweek t-tonight, we'll st-still sound great," he laughed.

Tweek crumpled to the ground when he was done screaming. He pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms tightly around them. It felt like all of the air in his lungs had been used up when he screamed. His heart was pounding against his rib cage like it was trying to fight its way out. He gently rocked back and forth, trying to calm his trembling.

"No, it's not fucking fine, Clyde!" he thought. "It's not fucking fine at all!"

So much for calming down.

"I feel embarrassed and humiliated and angry and jealous and somehow also horny as fuck because I'm thinking about him hooking up with this guy but then the jealousy kicks back in and I'm depressed and angry! Angry at me! Angry at him! I was all over him last night and the least he could've done was tell me to go the fuck away, that he didn't want my dick, he wanted some wrestledick!"

Tweek gently fell over onto the floor, still hugging his knees to his chest. The feeling of the carpeting against his cheek felt nice—scratchy and worn down, but still nice. The tactile sensation began to help him pull himself back to reality. He wasn't going crazy. He wasn't going to die. He was going to be alright.

An hour passed. When Tweek finally began to feel human again, he got up off the floor and dusted himself off. His hands were still shaking a bit, but he knew how to get rid of that. He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a cigarette and his lighter. Once it was finally lit, he inhaled deeply and felt himself instantly relax. He knew he was probably going to have to quit someday in order to take better care of his voice, but right now, cigarettes were a little piece of heaven.

He laughed to himself as he exhaled. If Wendy knew he was smoking in here, she would have his head…

…head…

…getting head…

…giving head…

…Craig probably gave head last night…

…Tweek would have liked to watch that...

Fuck.

Tweek realized he'd made himself hard letting his mind wander to sex. His mind often wandered to sex on its own. He tried to ignore the tightness in his skinny jeans, but his stubborn mind wouldn't allow it. He hastily unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, pulled them down to his mid-thigh, and sat down bare-assed on the leather couch. Just one round wouldn't hurt, right?

"Okay, that's the last of the speakers, Butters. What else do you need me to do?"

"Gosh, Craig! I'm so thankful for the help, but I think we can take it from here. I don't want to take you away from your job, too."

"Point," Craig said with a soft laugh. "The band's bound to be here by now, right?"

"You didn't see them come in earlier?"

"What? No, I didn't…"

"Well they did. Go hang with out them! It's okay, really! You still need to get to know them better, right?"

"Thanks, Butters." Craig gave him a small wave as he walked away to search for the dressing room.

After being pointed in several different directions by various venue staff, Craig finally found himself in front of a door with a piece of masking tape on it with handwriting that read Humble Folx. Craig knocked, waiting for a response. He was a profession, dammit—at least he kept telling himself that. He didn't want to simply barge into the band's room without permission.

Clyde answered the door. "Craig! Come on in, buddy!"

Craig entered to find the members scattered around the room with their instruments in tow.

"We were just about to jam while we hurry up and wait. Stay and hang with us!" said Clyde, pointing to a seat next to his guitar.

"Where's Tweek? Is he doing vocal warm-ups somewhere else?" asked Craig.

The other band members shared uneasy looks amongst themselves.

"Is he in the bathroom?"

Kenny sighed. "He's hiding in the other dressing room. He's not really feeling well right now...and you should probably avoid him for a while because—"

Craig frowned, interrupting Kenny. "I was warned about this, but I didn't realize it was this bad. Is this what he does every time there's an interview? This isn't even an interview! I just wanted to hang out with you guys before the show and get to know you better. I can't believe he'd refuse to hang out casually, too. Damn…"

Kenny and Token shared a quick, knowing glance. What Craig didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Besides, if Tweek found out that they had told him why he was having a panic attack and hiding, he'd eat their faces.

"Yup, that's it," said Kenny. "This is what he does if he thinks he might be interviewed. I mean, shit, you saw how he acted at lunch the other day when you tried to ask him an easy question."

"Tweek is…delicate in a lot of ways," explained Token. "He's a spitfire on stage, but at his core, he struggles with a lot of anxiety, especially around people he doesn't know very well."

"I'm trying to get to know him!" said Craig.

"I know you are, but…" Token tried to figure out the right way to get Craig to understand. "Tweek is kinda like a cat you just adopted that had been abused by its previous family. You need to take things slow, hold out your hand, and just wait until he comes to you on his own terms."

Craig opened his mouth to protest, but Token held up his hand.

"I know it sounds like a lot, but just try to trust me on this. We've all known him for a long time, and none of us became friends with him overnight. Give him time, cut him some slack, and he'll come around. Promise."

Kenny, Clyde, and Jimmy nodded in agreement.

Craig crossed his arms and sighed. "Okay. I can try that."

Craig relaxed as the band began to play. He'd never been able to be in such an intimate performance with a live band. Even though he was technically at work, it was still an exciting experience.

As the afternoon wore on, they played around with some new music they were workshopping in between fielding questions from Craig. If he couldn't spend the time to get to know his main subject right now, he figured he might as well get to know the supporting cast. He showed Token what he's written about him the previous night. It was the first time he'd seen Token smile so hard that his teeth showed.

When the band broke for dinner, Craig joined Jimmy on the couch. He'd decided that he was going to be the subject of tonight's writing. Jimmy was happy to oblige.

"So...the keyboard. A classic rock instrument, but not what most people would answer with if asked to name a rock band instrument. How'd you get started with it?" asked Craig.

"The way that a lot of people st-start—my parents signed me up for piano lessons when I was six. I st-started begrudgingly, but it t-turned out I was pretty good at it and learned quickly. It gave me something that I could use to impress girls," he said with a laugh. "The only problem was that I could never use the p-p-pedals with my legs being the way they are. Eventually when I was in junior high, my p-parents bought me a really expensive keyboard for Christmas, so I didn't have to deal with that."

"That was really nice of them."

"Yeah. I'm lucky that my p-parents are really supportive—even of my comedy."

"Comedy?" asked Craig.

"Yeah. My other passion in life is comedy, but I am not built for st-stand-up."

Jimmy paused with his mouth open in a smile, waiting for Craig's reaction. Craig gave him a quiet, nervous laugh.

"I ended up combining my two loves the summer before high school. I st-started writing comedic songs and recording them to po-post online. Think the music of Jonathan Coulton meets the lyrics of The Lonely Island. People seemed to enjoy the music…but the problem was that it's really hard to get good comedic timing with lyrics when you have a st-stutter."

"That sucks, dude," said Craig, eloquent as ever.

"Sure did. I kept writing and playing, but didn't bother with the recordings. I just decided to keep it to myself. I have a pretty thick skin and a p-positi-tive attitude, but even the best of us can still be worn down by cruel comments on the internet. Anyway, to make a long st-story short, I eventually saw the flyers the other guys had put up around town, and that's when I asked them if they wanted someone on keys. And here we are now."

Jimmy smiled and looked over at the rest of the band, laughing and chatting with full mouths of food on the other side of the room.

"Do you still write?" asked Craig.

"Somet-times, when inspiration strikes. It's still a creative outlet for my comedy. My dream is that we get famous enough where I could convince Tweek to sing one of my songs while I accompany him. Like when we're famous enough where fans would be so excited about us that they'd let us play whatever at a concert and they'd still love it."

"So, like, in five, ten years, if you're still relevant as a band," said Craig with a playful smirk.

"Yeah, exactly," Jimmy laughed. "I know it's a long shot, but—" He looked over at his friends. "—I believe in us."

Tweek barely flinched at the sound of the door being unlocked. He was in his happy place, and nothing, not even whatever or whoever was behind that door, could take him out of it. …Maybe if it was a gang of ninja vampires. God, he hoped it wasn't ninja vampires.

The locking mechanism clicked and the doorknob turned. The door opened a fraction—just enough so he could clearly hear the voice on the other side.

"No, I don't know why he locked himself in here. Yes. Yes, thank you, sir."

The door creaked open slowly. Wendy walked into the dark room, unsure as to what sort of mess she was going to find inside. Her nostrils were hit with the strong smell of marijuana, and as her eyes adjusted, she could make out the faint glow of a joint in Tweek's hand. She felt around on the wall for the light switch. Tweek squinted his eyes and screeched when the bright light flooded the room.

"I know that hurts, but... I'm sorry, not sorry, because I am pissed off at you right now," she said.

"Why? What did I do?" he asked.

Wendy crossed her arms and stared at him. He was lying on the ground, on his back, with his legs bent and resting on the leather sofa. His joint was nearly finished. He took one final hit, coughing after holding it in a little too long.

"You're smart enough to know why I'm pissed."

"I'm sorry I locked myself in here," he said softly, trying not to kill his vibe. "I learned some upsetting info that triggered a panic attack, and it was the first thing I could think of doing."

"I know you struggle with GAD and panic disorder, but I don't think Craig having sex with someone who isn't you really warrants this kind of reaction, Tweek."

"Wait, how do you know about that?!"

"Token mentioned it when he texted me that you had locked yourself in here four hours ago and you would respond to him." She sighed and placed her hands on her hips. "And it's my privilege as band manager to check to see if you're still alive."

Tweek sighed. "I hope you know I'm not trying to be difficult on purpose. I hate this just as much as you guys do. I'd literally give up everything I've been working for since high school to be a person who doesn't feel like they're going crazy nearly every waking moment."

Wendy relaxed. As frustrated as he made her sometimes, she knew that Tweek was only reacting with the coping mechanisms he knew worked for him. She just wished that he had better ones.

"And," Tweek continued, "the logical part of me fucking knows that it's none of my business who hot journalist Craig fucks, but that part is rarely at the wheel."

He threw his legs off of the sofa and rolled over onto his side before getting up off the floor.

"If it makes up for it, I wrote while I was in here." He grabbed a pile of loose papers off the floor and held them up. "I think there's about five songs worth of material here."

"And are those five songs metaphors for how badly you want to sleep with our reporter?" Wendy raised an eyebrow.

"I plead the fifth."

Craig had heard Wendy say she was about to lure Tweek out of the other dressing room, so he had left the backstage area immediately. He didn't want to risk Tweek seeing him and running back inside the room, worried that he was getting tricked into being interviewed. Craig couldn't help his presence while on tour, but he could lessen the impact it had on the performances themselves. He wasn't about to be the cause of the concert getting cancelled because the lead singer wouldn't come out.

He wandered around the main floor of the venue for a while, trying to find the best angle to take photos without crowding the stage. When he heard the guys start to file onto the stage for a quick soundcheck, he disappeared outside. There was already a small crowd of people waiting for the doors to open. They briefly cheered when the door opened, but their cheers turned into groans and boos when they realized he wasn't there to let them in.

When the door opened again nearly thirty minutes later, a venue employee quickly ushered Craig back inside before propping open the door for the fans to start filing in. Craig claimed his spot on the floor as people began filling in around him until the building was stuffed to capacity. Craig was glad that he had scoped out a spot earlier. He could barely move right now as it was—if he had to try to find a better spot on top of that, it would been nearly impossible.

The floor lights dimmed and the stage lights rose. The opening band completed their set with a mixed reaction from the audience. Craig actually found that he enjoyed their sound better than the previous night, but his feelings on them being a poor match for Humble Folx were reinforced.

Humble Folx's set started the same way it had in Salt Lake City. High energy from Clyde and Token as they started "New Kind of High", then an opening speech from Tweek that led into "Gimme". They were sexy, suggestive songs about love and desire, and the primarily female audience in The Knitting Factory tonight was eating it up.

Craig watched Tweek after he finished up another song later in the set. It was obvious that he could feel that horny fangirl energy, too. He walked over to Clyde and whispered something in his ear. Clyde nodded and moved around the stage passing on Tweek's message to Token, Jimmy, and Kenny.

"All right, Boise, so here's the deal," Tweek began, returning to the front of the stage. "We started out as a couple of young assholes dicking around in our parents' garages pretending to be a band." He laughed and ran a hand through his messy green hair. "That means that we have a fuckton of covers in our back pocket. There's a reason that 'The Chain' was our first single, you know? Anyway, since we only have one album of original material, and no one likes to pay for a concert that's only an hour long, I hope you don't mind if we play a few of our favorite covers."

The audience gave a warm response.

"That's what I was hoping to hear." Tweek flashed that charismatic performance grin of his. "This song is an old one, but a classic, and I think it fits the energy of the room here tonight. See if you agree."

Tweek put the microphone back on the stand as Clyde started the opening guitar riff to Led Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love". Token joined in on bass, and Tweek followed with the vocals.

"…Way down inside...honey, you need it,

I'm gonna give you my love,

I'm gonna give you my love…"

The fangirls lost their shit as Tweek turned the sex appeal up to eleven. He took advantage of the long jam session that fit neatly between the second and third verse of the song, slowly unbuttoning his shirt while holding intense eye contact with various fans in the audience. Craig held his breath, afraid that Tweek would accidentally make eye contact with him while he was undressing. If that happened, Craig would be done for. If he were to get a boner while sardined into the concert crowd...well, he didn't want to even think of the embarrassing repercussions.

Once Tweek's shirt was fully open—and his nipple piercings fully exposed, Craig noted—he motioned off-stage. A moment later, a roadie tossed him a large water bottle. He cracked it open and chugged down about a third of it, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand when he was done.

Craig watched the gears in Tweek's head turn as he looked down at the remaining water in the bottle, then back at the audience. He lifted the water in the air and turned it upside-down over his head. The water cascaded down over him in slow motion—at least that's how Craig perceived it.

Tweek threw the bottle off-stage and bit his lip, grinning at the audience. The venue was loving it. He shook some of the water from his hair, then removed his soaked shirt and balled it up to throw into the crowd. The fans began to shift around as some tried to get into a better position to catch the wet shirt. Tweek let it fly right before he picked up the song at the third verse to close it out.

Craig felt his body lurch forward as some fans behind him pushed forward through the crowd, trying to reach the shirt. He was knocked around between several people, losing his balance, and right when he finally regained it, another fan accidentally stepped on his foot.

Craig grit his teeth and held back a scream. He didn't want to draw any more attention to himself. Pissed off and in pain, he pushed his way through the crowd to the side of the floor, where there was a little more breathing room, but not as good of a view of the stage. As much as he wanted to leave the show right now and head back to the van—or maybe an urgent care center—he was a damn professional. He was going to stay on the side and take photos of the rest of the concert—but he sure as hell wasn't going to enjoy it.

When the band finally finished up their last song of the night, Craig turned and left as fast as his injured foot would let him. The air outside was much cooler than inside the venue. It felt like Craig could breathe again. He limped his way through the parking lot to where he had left the van. Thankfully, he hadn't given Wendy the keys back yet, so he was able to unlock the back and lie down in between boxes of merch.

This sucked. This wasn't anything like he had imagined it would be. Touring with an up-and-coming band was supposed to be fun, exciting, and a rare opportunity for him as a music journalist. So far, this tour had only been awkward, embarrassing, and highly unproductive. It may have only been a few days, but the faster this interview could be written and published, the better it would be for the band. A cover story piece on them at the end of their tour wouldn't be as effective, even if it still spread their name and might increase sales of their album.

Craig rubbed his hands over his face. Tweek. He was so frustrating, and he probably didn't even realize it. Well...he must've realized it wasn't helpful to Craig's job that he avoided talking to him unless he was drunk—but he couldn't know how that affected Craig on a personal level. He definitely couldn't know how his live performances were affecting Craig. It's not like he was laying on the sex and innuendo to mess with Craig. It was just part of his performance, part of his band persona. It was to work his budding fanbase into an excited lather. Craig knew that—but fuck if it didn't make his job that much more difficult, having to try to keep the image of a wet, half naked Tweek singing about sex out of his mind at all times.

Craig sighed. He sat up and removed his shoe from the injured foot. Time to survey the damage. No torn skin or blood, thankfully, but it looked like he was going to end up with a pretty mean bruise. His foot was still tender as he slid the shoe back on.

He jolted when his phone started to ring. Maybe it was Wendy looking for him. He pulled his phone out of his pants and swiped it open.

...Cartman?

"What do you want, Cartman?" he asked.

"First off, I don't know how many times I've asked you—very nicely, I might add—-to call me Eric. Secondly, you sounded like a dick answering the phone. You're touring the country on the magazine's dime, you should sound happier."

Craig rolled his eyes.

"Stop rolling your eyes, Craig," said Eric.

"How did you know? You didn't somehow plant cameras around me, did you?"

Eric audibly sighed over the phone. "You're the perfect person to interview this crazy guy—you're as paranoid as he is. No, I'm very talented, but I'm not that talented. I just know you, and you roll your eyes at any sort of authoritah."

"Why did you call, Eric?"

"I'm looking for an update on how it's going."

Craig made a low rumbling noise in his throat.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" asked Eric. "Have you gotten the interview yet or not?"

"Uh...no."

"It's been three days and you still haven't gotten the interview? What's wrong with you? What are you wasting time for?"

"Things are...complicated," said Craig.

Silence on the other end.

"Are you going to elaborate on that?" Eric finally asked.

"I know you said that the vocalist was notoriously absent from any interviews, but I didn't think it was going to be this hard to get it when he asked for me by name. Tweek doesn't really open up. Unless he's drunk, but I am not getting an interview while he's drunk. Also things are awkward between him and me because I saw him getting his dick sucked the first night I got to Denver—"

"Wait, what?"

"—and I've been so hard up lately that I found it really sexy and now I fantasize about him and I really just want to fuck him, but I can't because that's not why I'm here."

"I have so many questions right now. Never mind, it doesn't matter. Just fuck him already! Whatever it takes to get the interview. Screw being professional."

Craig rubbed his temples. He really didn't need this right now. Cartman was the most unprofessional person in the entire world, and he was not about to take advice from him.

"Look, Eric. I'm going to keep doing what I'm doing. I'm not going to risk my journalistic integrity by sleeping with my subject, no matter how badly I want to. I have the entire tour to get this interview, so you can back off. I've been tweeting like I'm supposed to, and I've been posting the nightly journal for the website. I've been doing everything I was asked to do, so you have no reason to tell me to change what I'm doing. Goodbye."

Craig threw his phone against one of the cardboard boxes next to him. It made a dull thud and fell down onto his lap. He sighed. What a shitty day. He was angry at Tweek, he was angry at Cartman, and honestly, he was mostly angry at himself. He just wanted the day to end.

His stomach made a loud gurgling noise as he felt a dull ache in his abdomen. It had been a while since he'd eaten. Sleep was going to have to wait.

Craig decided to go for a walk to search out some place he could get a cheap meal. He limped at first, but as he continued to walk, the pain began to lessen and he was able to walk closer to normal. The night air was warm and dry. Craig was used to the often oppressive humid heat of New York City in the summer. He welcomed the change.

After about fifteen minutes of walking past restaurants that were about to close or only open for the bar, Craig finally found a twenty-four hour diner. He was seated and ordered quickly, not wanting to spend too much time out. After last night, he wanted to make sure he had enough sleep, just in case he had to drive the merch van again in the morning.

As he waited for his food, he people watched. One of his favorite things to do back in New York was get food with Stan in the middle of the night and observe the creatures of the night. From college students pulling an all-nighter to sex workers, you could find all sorts. Sometimes he and Stan would even make a game out of it, sketching out bingo cards before they went out. Craig laughed to himself. He didn't think he would, especially this soon, but he was missing Stan. He'd have to remember to give him a call in the morning.

Craig's eyes fell onto a group of people dressed in all black sitting in a booth at the other end of the diner. The longer he stared, the more he began to think they looked familiar. Finally it dawned on him—it was Humble Folx's opening act.

His food came, and as he ate, he continued to watch them. It appeared that they were barely talking to each other, and not because they were eating a meal. Rather, they were drinking coffee and staring off into the middle distance. That was it. They did nothing else during the whole time that Craig ate and paid for his meal.

He stood up and headed toward the exit, but at the last minute, decided to continue towards the goth band. As the person covering the tour, he felt that it was appropriate that he introduce himself. They'd probably appreciate getting some media attention as well, even if their sound was very different from that of Humble Folx.

As he moved closer, they looked up from their mugs in unison. Craig felt a jolt rush through his body—the death glare they gave him was intense. He took a deep breath and closed the gap between him and their booth.

"H-hi, my name is Craig, and I'm a writer for Treble and Bass magazine. I'm following the Humble Folx tour all summer, and I happened to see you from across the diner, so I figured I'd come say hello."

The four band members continued to stare at him, unblinking. Craig wasn't even sure if they were breathing. They seemed so weird. How did they even get this gig anyway?"

The tall, slender goth, who Craig recognized as the vocalist, was the first to blink. He picked up his mug of coffee and took a sip. The other three followed suit, like they were deferring to him about when to drink.

"We know who you are," he said.

"Oh. Okay, cool." Craig stood in front of their booth, watching them sip their black coffee. The sounds of the diner filled the empty space around them. He desperately wanted to leave, but his feet wouldn't let him.

"Why are you still standing here?" asked the tall goth.

"Uh, sorry."

Why were they so intimidating?

"Uh, just let me know if you ever want to do an interview for the magazine," said Craig. "I have to write a nightly piece for the website, and I'd be happy to give you some media attention."

"Fuck no." The guitarist goth, notable for the intense red streak in his otherwise pitch black hair, put his mug down and looked up at Craig with disdain. "Fuck the media and their fake bullshit. They're just a bunch of posers."

Craig was taken aback. "Uh, yeah. Okay. We don't have to do an interview. If you ever change your mind, though, just let me know."

He was about to turn tail and leave the diner as fast as he could, but the band's synth keyboard player spoke up with a loaded question.

"If you're following the Humble Fucks, then why aren't you out with them at some Barbie doll conformist club?" she asked.

She knew immediately that she had made a huge mistake when she saw the change in Craig's face.

"I'm not out with them because shit is weird between me and the singer." Craig continued, explaining said 'weird shit' between him and Tweek. He also included his recent conversation with Cartman. "So yeah...that's my tale of woe."

"I'm sorry I fucking asked," said the female goth.

"You should listen to that Cartman guy," said the tall goth. "Stop being such a pussy." The others nodded in agreement.

"But what about my professional integrity?"

The youngest band member, who had been silent for the entire time Craig had been with them, finally spoke up. "Integrity is a fool's errand, and professionalism is a fucking joke written in the blood of the poor by the capitalist fat cat posers who run the world."

Craig opened and closed his mouth, unable to think of how to respond.

"Look," the female goth added, "stop whining like a little bitch and just fuck him and get it over with. Then you can focus on your actual job."

Craig nodded slowly. "Right. Thanks for the advice. I'm going to go get some sleep. Goodnight."

"Sleep is for conformists," he heard them say as he left the diner.

First Cartman, now the goth band. Was the universe actually trying to convince him that it was a good idea for him to fuck Tweek? Would it actually lend itself to the interview process by making an intimate connection with him, helping him open up to Craig? Maybe…

...but it also ran the risk of Tweek only seeing Craig as another conquest. He might not take him seriously anymore, and maybe he could dismiss him from the tour altogether, sending Craig back to New York in shame. Was it worth the risk to clear his mind of these horny thoughts?

Craig arrived back at The Knitting Factory parking lot. No sign of the band. He climbed into the back of the van once again, closing and locking the door behind him. What a shitty night. He curled up in the back of the van and fell asleep. Maybe tomorrow would be better.