Chaos, Inc.

Butters, the other South Park characters, and South Park itself belong to Trey Parker and Matt Stone.

Chapter Four: Professor Chaos Goes to Washington

As Butters flew into Dulles Airport the next morning, he knew he had a lot to think about—Chaos Labs, Eric, his Mom—but what was uppermost in his mind was the need to pee. Next time he would definitely remember that it was a good idea to get to the restroom 45 minutes before the flight was supposed to arrive in Washington, no matter how much turbulence there was. That National Airspace security was a killer.

There hadn't been much time to search for a flight or to pack. He had spent about an hour looking around on the Internet in some confusion—where were all these hotels again?—and finally caved and called Dougie, who woke up Filmore, who asked him for his credit card info and had the whole thing set up in about fifteen minutes. They'd gotten up early and picked him up to drive him to the airport.

"Bye, Mom," he said, giving her a hug. "Du-don't worry. Everything'll be ok an'-an' I'll call ya the minute I get there."

"I'm not worried, baby," she said. "And don't you worry about me, either. I've got plenty to keep me busy."

Well, if she didn't now, she would soon, he thought.

"Hi, Mrs. Stotch!" said Filmore, as Dougie grabbed Butters' suitcase. "Mm! Do you use cloves in your muffins?" he added, trying one out.

Mrs. Stotch smiled. "Why, yes, actually, I do." She liked Filmore, but then, thought Butters, who didn't? As Dougie hustled him towards the pickup, he could hear little pieces of Filmore's pep talk about the Arts Council and how she was just the person they needed to round out the team. Dougie honked the horn.

"Bye, Mrs. Stotch!" called Filmore, waving and palming another muffin. "We'll get Butters to the airport in one piece!"

"After that it's out of our hands," said Dougie under his breath.

"Call you later on!" said Filmore, and swung himself into the truck. He sank his teeth into the second muffin. "Wow, she really does use cloves. Who would have thought?"

The trouble with leaving everything to Filmore became evident as soon as he got to the airport. To his embarrassment, he'd been hustled into a premier lounge and then put in first class, where he felt really conspicuous in his J-Mart clothes, and been offered omelets and champagne. Who drank champagne, especially first thing in the morning? He declined the champagne but admitted that the omelet made a nice change from cornflakes. Then, when they landed, all he wanted to do was to find a men's room, but instead he was met by a driver, carrying a sign reading

STOTCH

He couldn't bring himself to tell a man wearing such a fancy uniform that he really had to pee, so he just went along quietly to the large black limousine, even though limousines reminded him of Paris Hilton and even though he thought that here, again, Filmore had gone much too far.

He decided to get something over with as quickly as possible.

"Uh, sir? Uh-could we, um, y'know, make a quick stop before you take me to the hotel?"

"Sure," said the driver. "Where to?"

"Um," said Butters, checking his notes, "Alexandria City Jail."

There was a pause. "OK," said the driver, and they were headed for Virginia.

It seemed like a nice enough building, thought Butters. Not such a terrible place, if you had to be in jail, that was. The driver dropped him off in front of the building and promised to come back in an hour.

He ran up the flight of steps. Oh, hamburgers, he shoulda called somebody and told them he was coming. He almost collided with a stocky brown-haired man in a well-cut suit, who put out a hand and stopped him.

"Butters?" Butters stared at the man. He looked familiar.

"Clyde?"

"Oh, good," breathed Clyde, "it is you. I've been trying to get hold of you. Eric keeps saying that you can get him out of this mess, but when I ask him for details, he just clams up, which is not," Clyde added, half escorting and half pulling Butters into the building, "the kind of behavior you want to see in a client."

"You're Eric's lawyer?" said Butters.

"He didn't tell you that?" said Clyde, frowning.

"I thought Kyle Broflovski was our lawyer."

Clyde sighed. "Kyle," he said, in a tone that suggested he'd had to say this many times before, "is a tax attorney. Admittedly, he is a damned good tax attorney, but he does not do criminal defense. That's my job." They went through a screening process involving a pat down and a metal detector that Clyde had clearly done many times before.

"I d-didn't know you were a defense lawyer, Clyde," said Butters, trotting behind him.

"Oh, yes," said Clyde. "Always wanted to do it. Ever since the time they announced over the school PA system that I was the one who'd crapped in the urinal and I sat there in Mr. Mackey's office for about an hour before my parents came in and told them I couldn't have: well, it occurred to me that people get arrested for things they couldn't possibly have done all the time. So that's what I do now."

"Um, Clyde," said Butters, "speakin' of urinals. . . "

"Huh? Oh, it's over there."

After taking care of that, Butters allowed Clyde to lead him to the interview room, where people in the jail could speak with their attorneys and other visitors. They waited while a guard went off to fetch Cartman.

Butters looked around at the bare walls, at the linoleum floors, at the plexiglass wall separating prisoners from their visitors. "Ain't there any ch-chance of gettin' Eric out on b-bail?" he asked.

Clyde shook his head. "Nope," he said. "The judge is convinced that he's a fugitive risk. I don't have to tell you how he ran during the whole Casa Bonita thing, let alone tried to break out of juvvie. He's gotta stay here and that's the best we can do. Pity, because it makes putting a defense together much more difficult."

The door on the opposite side of the plexiglass opened, and Cartman came in with two guards. They sat him down at a chair.

Cartman didn't seem to be in a very good mood.

"Well, finally," he said, glancing at Butters. "Took you long enough. Clyde," he said, "I thought I told you to make them get rid of these fucking cuffs." He waved his hands up, showing that they were indeed cuffed together, with metal cuffs now.

Clyde frowned. "They don't have you cuffed when you're in your cell, do they?"

"No," admitted Cartman, "but for Christ's sake, I don't need them at all." Butters noticed that he didn't say anything about the fact that they probably hurt his fat wrists, too.

Clyde spoke to the guard, who nodded and uncuffed Cartman. "They'll uncuff you for now," Clyde said, "and I'll speak to the judge about it."

"OK, Clyde," Cartman said, "this is between Butters and me."

Clyde looked irritated. "Eric, I'm your attorney, don't you think you'd better tell me—"

"No," Cartman snapped. "All you need to know is to let Butters have access to my apartment and my office, even my papers."

"Papers!" Butters exclaimed. "Holy sm-smoke, I knew I forgot somethin'!" He pulled out a fat sheaf of papers. "I'm sorry, Clyde. I got some photocopies of our books and our tax returns. They're perfectly clean and they're legal, too. You think this'll help?"

Clyde was flipping through them, looking pleased. "It certainly will," he said. "Let me check them over, but I may be able to get the tax evasion charges dropped right away—maybe as soon as tomorrow." He carried the papers over to a chair in the corner and began reading them more carefully, leaving Butters and Cartman alone.

This was definitely awkward.

"Uh, Eric," began Butters, "you're lu-lookin' well. How's the f-food in here?"

"Oh, it's fabulous," said Cartman sarcastically. "It's like a fucking resort in here. What do you think, asshole?" he snapped. "I was supposed to get married in a month. How do you think I feel? Here's what I need you to do," he continued. "I need you to go through my apartment and my office and check through all the Chaos Labs stuff. See if anything's missing or it's been tampered with. Luckily I didn't have any of it on me personally when they arrested me or I'd have had to surrender it. That's the easy part."

If that was the easy part, thought Butters, he hated to hear what the hard part was.

"Su-so," said Butters, "ya think they gu-got the thingiebobber or the tweedlywhatsit?"

"What the fuck are you talking about, Butters?" snarled Cartman.

"Sorry," said Butters, and blushed. "Me'n Dougie, we t-talk that way when we're not at work; that way if s-someone's listenin', it don't matter. "

"Well, I don't know what those things are," Cartman pointed out, "so—OH," he said suddenly, "the tweedlywhatsit. Is that the one where—" and he made a series of peculiar gestures in the air.

"Yep."

"Hmmmm," said Cartman, "hadn't thought about that one. Problem is, I don't think anything's missing now. It couldn't have been gone for long, whatever it was, or I would have noticed. And whoever got it had to have had access to my office and my desk, maybe even my apartment. Which could be a lot of people: my staff, constituents, pizza delivery guys. Still, they'd have to have known what they were looking for and be able to get to where it was, and all the Chaos Labs stuff is locked up, and they'd also have to put it back. That might narrow it down a bit. So," he finished, "you've got to find out what went missing and why, who took it, what they did with it, and prove it before we're all wearing these attractive orange jumpsuits. Like I said, that's the easy part."

"What's the hard p-part?" said Butters, dreading this.

"You've got to talk to Wendy for me," said Cartman.

"Aw, g-geez," said Butters. "Couldn'tcha do that yourself?"

"How, asshole?" Cartman glared. "I can't call her. And she hasn't been here."

Butters looked down at his feet. "Whaddaya want me ta t-tell her, Eric?"

Cartman leaned in. "Everything."

"Y-you mean . . ."

"I mean everything. Almost everything. About Chaos Labs, the whole thing. She was gonna know it anyway," Cartman said, "as soon as we got married—which we're still going to do. I hope," he added.

"I just got one question, Eric—it's kinda p-personal."

"You can ask."

"Why ain't you and Wendy married already?"

Cartman looked aggravated. "What do you think I've been trying to do for the past 12 years?" he said impatiently. "First we were building Chaos Labs and school slowed me down a little. And it took a little while to make that first ten million dollars."

"Did ya have to wait to make ten million d-dollars first?" asked Butters.

Cartman gave him a look that said You idiot. "Then she was all busy at NPR—and I was stuck back in South Park—until I ran for Congress. Which worked great," he said, a bit more cheerfully, "and it was good for business, too. Plus I got to see a lot more of her once I moved to Washington. And then I had to destroy the fucking competition, and there was a lot of that. And then, it took a lot of time to convince her to marry me."

"Why?"

"She said she wasn't sure she wanted to be stuck with me." Seeing Butters' look of shock, he added proudly, "She's very honest. So once I got over that hurdle and bought her a rock the size of the fucking Capitol Dome, I figured I was home free."

"And you weren't?"

"No," said Cartman grimly, "because then we had to plan a fucking wedding. Do you have any idea how fucking long that takes, even with pros doing it? When you've got to invite all the journalists, and a whole pile of political people I owe, and another pile who owe me, and then a bunch of people on the other side because it's got to be a fuckin' bipartisan wedding—and the corporate guys and the lobbyists I'm in bed with—not literally," he added, as Butters gasped, "most of them are even fatter than me and not nearly as pretty--well, it took a while," he said, "and I'm sure there are still people we forgot."

"Wu-When was the wedding su-supposed to be?" asked Butters.

"Four weeks from Saturday. You knew that."

"Actually, no, I d-didn't," said Butters, "b-because you never sent me an invitation."

"Well, there isn't much point now, is there?" said Cartman gloomily. "Look, just go tell her the truth. At least she'll be entertained by the novelty."

Between searching Cartman's office for Chaos Labs devices, then doing the same at his apartment, it was very late afternoon when Butters checked into his hotel. Clyde had come along and let him in everywhere, and came up with him to his room, which Filmore must have insisted on booking on the executive level.

"Wow," said Clyde, taking in the two showers, the Jacuzzi, the high thread-count sheets, the view of the Jefferson Memorial, and the huge fruit basket with a card reading Enjoy yourself, Prof, "I had no idea running a gas station brought in this kind of money."

"It usually doesn't," said Butters truthfully.

"Here's Wendy's address and her phone numbers," said Clyde, "and here are my numbers. If you figure anything out, please call me right away. Damn," added Clyde, "you need a supermodel to go with this room. Hubba-hubba."

It didn't take Butters long to unpack. He figured that it would be a good idea to freshen up a bit before trying to talk to Wendy, so he climbed into the Jacuzzi. Filmore did have a point, he thought; it definitely got rid of some of the tension and he really needed that, though he still didn't know why a person would need a flat-panel TV in the bathroom. Then he slipped on some fresh clothes and his good sweater and called Wendy.

"Huh-hey, W-Wendy? Uh, it's Butters Stotch. Uh. . . . I'm in town an' I was wonderin' if you'd like some d-dinner, if you're free. . . yeah, I guess this is a bad time, but uh—this is sorta about that, an'-an- I was hopin' I could help. Could I please talk to ya for maybe fifteen minutes, anyway? ------Oh, g-good. Look, I'll be right over, just hang tight, ok?"

This time he could catch a regular taxi, which while he still wasn't used to it, made him feel a lot less conspicuous.

Wendy lived in a nice apartment building in Georgetown and buzzed him right in.

"Hu-hey, W-" he began, but she cut him off.

"That asshole sent you, didn't he?" she said coldly.

There didn't seem to be any point in asking "which asshole?"

"Well, you can go straight back there," she said, "and tell him that he has fucked me over for the last time." She took off an immense diamond ring and hurled it at Butters, who dodged it just in time. That thing could take an eye out.

"Do you have any idea," she yelled, "how humiliating this is? It's not enough to have to cancel everything and box up all the gifts and send them back, I've got to see it on the front page practically every day? Goddam fat criminal bastard asshole."

OK, thought Butters, pretend you're Filmore; he knows how to handle people. What would he say? Look at it from her angle. She's mad, all right, but she hasn't thrown you out yet. That's good.

"He is so lucky that he is locked up right now," she hissed, "because if I could get at him, I would—I'd flense him or something."

"Th-there's hardly any market for whale meat anymore, Wendy," he pointed out.

She sat down on the sofa and giggled. "That's true," she admitted. It looked as though she was done screaming for a while. Whew, thought Butters, what a relief, now I can talk to—

But he couldn't, because now she was crying, which was much worse, and they weren't cute little tears: they were big yowly snotty horking sobs, and she was pounding the sofa, and there was no way she was going to hear him over all that anyway. So he sat down next to her, thought about patting her on the back, decided against it, and waited it out.

Eventually, she had to slow down, which she did.

"Sorry, Butters," she said, and got up to get a towel and some ice from the kitchen. "I don't usually carry on like that. It just kind of hit me."

"Must be a shock," Butters agreed.

Wendy snorted. "Putting it mildly, yes," she said. "I thought there wasn't anything he could do that would shock or surprise me anymore, but this was definitely a surprise."

"Um, Wendy," Butters began, "you—you were kinda right about somethin'—Eric did ask me to talk to you."

Evidently Wendy wasn't quite done being angry.

"You see?" she said. "It's this kind of thing that pisses me off. He's got to send somebody, and when he can't find anybody, when he's totally desperate and has to find somebody who will do anything, then he goes to you, because he knows you're a complete pushover and you'll do it."

"Hu-hey!" Butters objected.

"I'm sorry, Butters," she said firmly, "but we both know it's true. What did he think you were going to say, anyway? 'Wendy, Eric didn't mean it?' Of course he didn't mean to get arrested, that's obvious. 'Wendy, Eric really loves you?' Because of course that one's true, too. Oh, shit, " she finished, sitting down hard on a big stuffed chair. She was finished crying—she didn't seem like the kind of girl who cried a lot, anyway—but her face sort of shook.

"Wu-well," Butters said, "he didn't tell me to say either of those things."

She looked up. "No?"

"No," he said. "He wanted me to tell you somethin' else."

She laughed. "You're telling me he's innocent? Butters, Eric has never been innocent of anything. Nice try, but no."

"Wu-well," Butters said, "all I c'n tell ya is what I know, an' what I'm tryin' ta figure out. An' he didn't ask me 'cause I'm a pushover," he said with as much dignity as he could manage. "He asked me 'cause I'm the only one who knows."

"Knows what?" said Wendy, curiosity in her voice.

So he told her. He told her about the charter, about Chaos Labs, about the "car alarms," about how much money the business brought in—her eyes bulged slightly at that one--leaving out anything about Dougie or the gas station or anything that they considered classified, which was a lot. Still, it ought to be enough to convince anybody.

"That," she said finally, "is a bald and unconvincing narrative. Secret espionage equipment? Framed by a person or persons unknown? I'm sorry, Butters, a child wouldn't believe that story."

"Look," Butters said desperately, "I can prove it to ya. Just gimme a minute."

He closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and began to sing.

"If ya leave me now,

Ya take away th' biggest part o' me,

OooooWOOOWOoooo

Baby, please don't goooo. . .

"Oh, geez, Butters, stop," cried Wendy. "What's that supposed to do—melt my heart? Because it's not working."

"Nope," said Butters. "Shh." He listened carefully, but there was nothing.

"I'm checkin' to make sure your neighbors ain't home," he explained. "Ya do that an' they come screamin' on out inta the hallway yellin' 'shut up,' but they d-didn't, so they ain't home. Now watch—an' keep your voice down."

He whipped a device no larger than a small cellphone out of his pocket and pressed a tiny red button. An LED display lit up with a phone number on it. He showed it to Wendy.

"Know whose number that is?" he asked her.

"No," she said, "no idea."

"I never seen it before either," said Butters, "but I know who I'm callin'." He punched the button again. "Hello? Is Token Black there? Who'm speakin' ta? Gosh, wow." He mouthed over at Wendy, "Wynton Marsalis." "Uh, yeah, Mr. Marsalis, I was wonderin' if I could speak ta Token. Tell him Butters Stotch." He waited a moment. "Loo loo loo, I got some—Oh, howdy, Token!" He hit another button on the little console.

"Hey, Butters," said the voice of Token, very quiet but definitely audible. "Long time, man."

"Boy, yeah. You r-recordin' with Wynton Marsalis now?"

"Yes. How did you get his cell number?"

"Long story," said Butters. "Listen, Token, couldja please do me a favor? I w-wouldn't ask ya, but this is real important."

"OK. We're on break right now anyway."

"Good. Have you got a laptop handy?

"Mine? Or anyone's?"

"A-Anyone's will do just fine. Just log in to your email account, couldja—and c-couldja email Wendy Testaburger?"

"Wendy? GOD, I don't know. I don't know what it is these days—haven't seen her in years."

"Two years, one month, eight days," said Butters quietly.

"Huh?" said Token.

"N-Nothin'. Just try . Got it? OK." He pressed the speaker button again and Token's voice blipped out. "Nope, it d-doesn't matter what you write, just 'hi, Wendy,' that'll do fine. OK, Token, thanks a b-bunch. Y-you take care now." He punched the last button and the LED display went dark. "OK," he said, turning to Wendy, "now check your email."

Wendy went over to her laptop, turned it on, and checked her email. There was a new message.

FROM: Token Black

SUBJECT: Hi

Msg: Hi, Wendy.

A little "beep" sounded from Butters' shirt pocket.

"Okey-dokey," said Butters, "now we gu-got to go to this other thingie over here. . ." He pulled out something that looked a bit like a PDA and showed it to Wendy. "Aaaaand. . . . here it is." The screen clearly showed:

TO: Wendy

FROM: Token Black

SUBJECT: Hi

Msg: Hi, Wendy

"Oh, my God," gasped Wendy. "What is that thing?"

"See that little st-sticker on your laptop?"

"Where?"

"It's kinda t-transparent. 'Bout the size of a postage stamp."

Wendy finally found it, a tiny clear plastic thing with "Save The Penguins" on it.

"Did you put that on there?" asked Butters quietly.

Wendy looked thoughtful. "No," she said. "I don't remember putting it on there."

"That's 'cause you didn't," said Butters confidently. "Eric did."

"What?"

"Yu-Yep. Look closer." He handed her a magnifying glass.

In incredibly tiny lettering at the very bottom of the sticker were the words: "Chaos Labs, Inc. Howdy, neighbor."

"But—how did you get hold of Token?" said Wendy.

"Oh, th-that was easy," said Butters. "I just hit the l-locator button on 'im."

"What?"

"Token," Butters explained patiently, "has got a l-locator implant in 'im. You remember seein' Token 'bout, maybe, two years ago?"

Wendy thought hard. "Yes," she said finally. "The Kennedy Center. He was playing a concert and we met him afterwards at a reception. I mean," she said, "Eric and I did."

"Uh-huh," said Butters, "an' I bet Eric gave 'im a n-nice big f-friendly slap on the back."

Wendy winced. Cartman had stuck on a post-it note reading "I'm a black asshole" and Token had been really aggravated. No one had actually seen Cartman do it, but Token had known. Which was why they hadn't kept in touch.

"That," said Butters, "had a little locator implant st-stuck on it. They go really deep, and they're really t-tiny. They work kinda like those r-radio collars on lions. Any time Token gets near an electronic device," he continued, "any electronic device, this dingy here," showing her the thing that looked like a cell phone, "p-pulls in a signal. So you can call the closest phone—which in this case, b-belonged to Wynton Marsalis—and you'll get T-Token."

"Even unlisted numbers? Even cell phones?"

"Doesn't m-matter," Butters insisted. "Now, I asked Token ta send ya an email. As soon as Token sends anything, this little whosamajinger," he showed her the PDA like thing, "r-rings or buzzes or whatever. Ya whip it out and there's a c-copy of the email he just sent."

Wendy frowned. "Why are you screening my email?" she said.

"Oh, I'm not," said Butters. "This here's Eric's su-screener. Yep," he said proudly. "He p-prob'ly sees your email before you do."

"Email from Token?"

"I'm n-not sure," Butters admitted, "but I think he's got a t-tracer on Stan, on Token--p-pretty much on any guy you ever went out with from th-third grade on, or anyone he thinks you might have gone out with, or who might have w-wanted to—and prob'ly Kyle, too, just because. Only people I'm p-positive don't have tracers on 'em are D-Dougie, Filmore, an' me. An' Eric wouldn't bother with Dougie or Filmore."

"But—but why?" stammered Wendy.

"'C-Cause he's crazy," said Butters simply. "'Cause he loves you, but he's still r-real crazy. You oughtta know that."

"Chaos Labs?" she said. "My God. This is awful, Butters. Can you imagine the sheer destructive possibilities of those things?"

"Yu-yeah," said Butters happily. "They su-sure raise heck, don't they?"

Wendy had never seen Butters look this mischievous before. On someone else, someone with a less innocent face, she might have said—evil.

"Cartman made these?" she said, her voice half wonder, half horror.

Butters snorted. "Naw. E-Eric's just a salesman. He wu-wouldn't have any idea how to th-think up any of this stuff, let alone f-figure out how to make it work."

"So—Eric's not some kind of evil genius?"

"Heck, no," said Butters.

"Good."

"I'm the evil genius."