Chaos, Inc.

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

Chapter Six: Helen of Troy and Colonel Sanders

Butters was awakened the next morning by the ringing of the phone next to the bed. He grabbed for it.

"Hu-hullo?" he yawned.

"Morning, Butters," said Clyde. "I looked over those documents you brought out and I think I've got some good news. Can I join you for breakfast?"

"Sure," said Butters, rubbing his eyes and looking at the clock. 7:30 am. 5:30 am Colorado time. Ouch. "Wh-where do ya want me to meetcha?"

"There's a lounge up there on your level," said Clyde. "They've got a breakfast spread. You didn't know that?"

Nope, thought Butters.

"I see," said Clyde. "All you have to do is call the concierge."

"How do I do that?" said Butters, looking at the phone.

"You hit the button on the phone that says 'concierge," what do you think?" said Clyde impatiently. "Haven't you ever stayed at a hotel before?"

"Sure," said Butters defensively. "When Aunt Nelly took me up to Yellowstone we stayed at the Days Inn. I know all about hotels."

"Uh-huh," said Clyde. "OK. Just tell the concierge that your lawyer Clyde Donovan is coming up to breakfast with you and they'll take care of the whole thing. I'll see you up there." Clyde clicked off. Butters sighed, and hit the button Clyde had told him about.

"Hu-hello? Mrs. Concierge? My f-friend Clyde Donovan wants to come up to breakfast—can he come?"

Mrs. Concierge was very nice about it.

Clyde was waiting for him when he got to the lounge. He clearly wanted to tear into the little twisty roll things and muffins, but he was very polite and waited for Butters to sit down and say good morning to him first. Then he tore into the little twisty roll things.

There were a lot of different things to drink in pots. Butters poured himself some orange juice and then thought he'd also try some coffee. Nope. He still didn't like it.

"So," said Clyde casually, "you and Cartman seem to be doing very well in the gas station business."

Butters swallowed some twisty roll thing. "Wu-what. . . didja . . . " he began.

Clyde held up a hand. "No, you don't have to tell me. But think about it. Cartman gets arrested for espionage. He says you're the only one who can help and won't tell me a thing. You show up in a limo. You're staying in a five star hotel on the Mandarin Level. You don't even know what that is, do you?" Butters shook his head. "Unbelievable. Well, I live here in DC and I do. You get all kinds of special perks up here. Free breakfast, valet service; whatever you want, all you have to do is hit that button on the phone and they will kill themselves trying to get it for you. They'll get you Stephen Colbert popping naked out of a cake, if that's what you want."

"Who's Stephen Colbert?" said Butters.

"Never mind. The point is that either you just robbed a bank or this has something to do with Cartman and probably with those espionage charges, too. I always wondered how he made all that money. You don't have to tell me what's going on. All I'm asking is that you give me enough information to get him off and keep you out of trouble."

"Oh. . . OK," Butters said.

Clyde sat back in his leather chair and looked out the window for a long time. "I never would have believed I'd be defending Cartman," he said finally. "I'm trying so hard to help and he isn't cooperating at all. I don't even know why I'm bothering. I keep thinking about when he and Stan and Kyle auditioned for friends."

"They did?" said Butters. How had he missed that?

"Yeah," Clyde said. "Right after Kenny died that time."

"Oh," said Butters. "It wasn't right after Kenny died," he added after a moment.

"You know, I think you're right," said Clyde. "I don't know why you weren't in the lineup. Anyway, I didn't make the second cut, and it really pissed me off at the time. I told them to their faces that the whole thing was stupid."

"I've never been an in the face kind of guy," said Butters.

"I know you're not. Cartman was an asshole to me a couple of times, and he's been an asshole to you over and over and over, and here we are, still trying to help him out." Clyde shook his head. "But it doesn't matter how big an asshole he is; I don't want him in prison if he hasn't done anything. And," said Clyde, turning back to Butters and fixing him in the eye, "I don't want you in prison either, Butters. Prison is not a nice place to be. Got it?"

Butters nodded. Jumpin' Jesus. He had forgotten all about that for a while.

"Don't look so scared, Butters," said Clyde, packing up his papers into his briefcase. "There's a good side, too. I'm supposed to meet with the judge right after breakfast. I'm almost positive I can get the tax evasion charges dropped. Those papers really helped. You keep bringing me stuff like that and we'll be home free in no time. Now, here's what I suggest. Go and visit the congressmen and the Senators from Colorado. Say you're a tourist from there. You'd be surprised; people do it all the time. Mention you're from South Park, say you went to school with Eric Cartman, see what they tell you." He stood up, picked up his briefcase, and headed for the door.

"But," said Butters, "why would they tell me anything?" Clyde turned around.

"Butters," said Clyde, "my friend Token tells me that sooner or later, everyone tells you everything. And he's right," he said, smiling. "I just did it myself."

Butters thought Clyde's idea was a pretty good one. It was certainly the only idea he had, anyway, and he was just about to head for the Congressional offices when his phone rang again.

"Good morning, Butters."

"W-Wendy?"

"Where are you staying?" she asked.

"I—I th-think it's called the Oriental something or other," said Butters, looking at the big leather guide in his room.

"The Mandarin Oriental Hotel?"

"Yu-yeah."

"OK. I'm driving out to see Eric. I'll pick you up about 10:30. Wait for me at the driveway."

"Um, Wendy? What were you p-plannin' on tellin' him?"

"I don't know yet," she said grimly, and hung up.

He killed some time trying to figure out what he was going to say to all those Congressmen and then went to meet Wendy. She was driving a very responsible-looking gray hybrid car.

"Here," she said, as he sat down in the passenger's seat and buckled the seat belt. "Hold this." He grabbed hold of "this" and discovered that "this" was a bucket of chicken. This looked like a good sign.

Wendy hardly spoke to him all the way out to Alexandria. He called Clyde, who called ahead to alert the officers that Congressman Cartman's fiancée and his friend from Colorado, who was also a defense witness, were on their way and that they expected to see him. The guards were very nice about letting them in, but they balked at the chicken. Butters' instinct was to let it go. Not Wendy.

"It's chicken, for God's sake!" she yelled. "It's from a franchise. It doesn't have tiny explosives strapped under its wings; it's already dead! Just let the poor thing alone!"

"Uh, ma'am, that's not funny, ma'am. We're just trying to protect you here, we're trying to keep terrorists from—"

"And I so appreciate your efforts to keep the world safe for Chickenocracy, your motto is clearly Fried and Free, but I still expect that chicken to make it, unmolested, through the screening devices."

They actually let her do it, too.

"Now," she said to one of the officers, "I want you to hang onto this. On no account bring it into the interview room; he'll smell it and it'll all be over. Just wait until I wave. And all the skin had better be still on it."

"You've got visitors, Congressman," said one of the guards. "Same guy who was here yesterday, and I guess he brought his girlfriend or something, or maybe she's your girlfriend. She sure seems pissed at somebody."

Yeah, thought Cartman, he wasn't surprised. Still, Wendy—it had to be Wendy--was here, and Butters was here, and that was probably good news. He allowed them to put the cuffs on and went off to the interview room.

Wendy was there on the other side of the plexiglass, pacing back and forth, black and angry, like an especially restless panther, while Butters huddled nervously on a chair. She wheeled around and glared at him as he came in.

Instinctively, he pulled his wrists up to shield his face, cuffs and all. Not like this, he thought. Stan, and Kyle, and Clyde, and Butters, and a few other people had seen him in prison clothes, but not Wendy: she'd never seen him like this before. And he couldn't face her.

Cartman didn't look very good, thought Butters; he looked as though he hadn't been sleeping, his hair was a disheveled mess, the orange jumpsuit looked as though it might be on its second or third day, and he was still cuffed: Clyde must not have been able to get through to the judge yet. But the real difference was that now he was unnerved. He seemed to be shielding his face.

"Eric," said Wendy firmly, "drop your hands. I've got something to ask you and I want to look you in the eye."

Cartman dropped his hands, but he was still blinking, as though he were afraid of her.

"Butters came over yesterday," she continued, "and told me this story—don't worry, I won't repeat it," as they both lunged forward to keep her from saying anything sensitive.

"It's all true," Cartman insisted.

"I wasn't going to ask you if it was true," said Wendy. "Sit down."

Cartman sat down.

"How long have you been spying on me with Token?"

"What kind of spying?"

"What?" She sounded startled.

"Do you mean the locator implant?" said Cartman. "We only developed that a couple of years ago. Or do you mean tapping his phone? I guess, if you count everything, probably since Chaos Labs got going—maybe ten, twelve years."

"You've been spying on Token for ten or twelve years?"

"Yeah," he said, "what's the problem?"

Wendy sat down, too. They were eyeball to eyeball now.

"Butters told me," she said, "that you have spent the last twelve years starting this—this bizarre business; piling up money; running for Congress; 'destroying the competition'—I'm quoting him quoting you, I presume; and keeping half of the male former grade school population of South Park under heavy surveillance."

"Yeah," agreed Cartman, "that's about right."

"WHY?"

"The end justifies the means," he said stubbornly.

"What end?" she demanded.

"Don't be dumb, ho. Mostly you, of course, although," he added, "being very rich and powerful does serioushley kick ass."

They stared at each other for another long minute, and then Wendy covered her eyes with her hand and shook her head.

"I give up," she said, and waved at the door. "Get him his goddamned chicken," she said to the guard who came in. The guard just stared. She glared at him. "What? He's hungry! And get those cuffs off, too! How's he supposed to eat it?"

The chicken had to go through a lot of security barriers again, and while it was on its way, Cartman stared at Wendy with his mouth open. Meanwhile, she scrabbled through an immense leather bag and came up with a diamond the size of the Capitol Dome.

"I th-thought you mighta lost that, Wendy," said Butters.

She sighed. "Well, I did have to hunt around under a lot of radiators last night. Luckily, diamonds don't dent." She slipped her ring back on again. The chicken had finally made it to an uncuffed Cartman.

"I so totally love you," he murmured.

"Mmm-hmmm," she said, "save it for Colonel Sanders. 'Destroying the competition.' You're insane, Eric. Who do you think I am, Helen of Troy? You've got Stan under surveillance, too?" Cartman nodded, mouth full of chicken. "Eric, Stan has been happily married to Kyle Broflovski for ten years. He's gayer than a basket full of leprechauns." Cartman swallowed.

"It could be an act," said Cartman darkly. "And people change their minds." He went back to the chicken.

"Eric," she said with exasperation, "every man who meets me is not secretly in love with me. You'd be surprised at how resistible I am."

But, thought Butters, that wouldn't make sense to Cartman. To Cartman, she was Helen of Troy, the most beautiful, most fascinating woman on the planet, and he couldn't imagine that every other man didn't think so too. Cartman being Cartman, passion took the form of paranoia. Personally, Butters thought that candy and flowers would have been nicer, but he wasn't Wendy Testaburger, and it didn't matter what he thought. Moreover, she clearly understood exactly how to communicate with Cartman. She didn't come running to see him, all tears and promises that she would still marry him, no matter what. She reamed him out, but she brought a bucket of chicken, and chicken speaks louder than words.

"You know," she said casually, "I was going to have you killed, marinated, and braised over a low flame." Cartman looked up. "But I've decided," she said, "to do it to whoever put you here instead."

Cartman grinned. "That's my girl," he said, and they each put a hand on either side of the plexiglass, and smiled.