/
DogPoo Petuski knows he's a nobody— Eric Cartman had said it best: he's more of a prop. It's defined in his meager arms, his flaxen hair, the way his face sinks below the grime and purple of the circles under his eyes. He looks like a sick kid, cancerous. He looks like he's dying. What he really wants to do is grow.
All of this is something that stuns his mother, who tells his dad, who asks, "Do we need to talk?"
DogPoo says, "It's okay."
For him, the realization came in the fourth grade. At a certain age, you just figure it out. You just know. What you can try to do is change, but until then, you're you.
/
When DogPoo Petuski thinks of Craig Tucker, he thinks of crumbling mountains and volcano eruptions and powerful, vehement, defining moments. If you would've asked him years ago what he thought of Craig, he would've called him a somebody. A word that would've come to mind is stoic. He would've possibly used the word cool.
Now, Craig is all heartless fury; he's indiscriminately infuriated at every portion of the world, like he's the only one who has something to be mad about in South Park. He has a distorted frown, a fucked up face, this arsenal of tough guy antics.
DogPoo got this brief understanding of him in the transition between winter and spring, because baseball conditioning began in January.
"Hey, Petuski."
Craig spoke to him first, at lunch. He only sat with Clyde and Token, and occasionally Tweek, whenever he wasn't paranoid as hell. So Craig had to turn around and tap DogPoo's shoulder, without hesitance. Typically, people believe that DogPoo's shoulders are dirty. He is DogPoo Rolling in Shit Petuski. So at the time, Craig's decisiveness was unbelievable.
His table manners were too.
He gnawed on a pencil instead of his food, subdued words leaving his mouth simultaneously, "What's it like, having no one notice you?"
Craig had the most serious face then (if DogPoo removed the pencil sliding between his teeth), but his dark, lengthy lashes had batted against each other like he thought of something annoyingly sweet. That could've been the cue Tucker's gang was looking for because Clyde furrows his brows.
He inquired: "What's it like, having no one on the entire team like you?"
Token laughed: "What's it like, having no one love you?"
It was like that, for a while.
The lunchtime bullying went on daily two weeks, but DogPoo didn't tell anyone because that would've made him a "pussy for life." Every now and then, Clyde would push his head into his tatter-tots and Token would say something stupid like, "Mashed potatoes!" They efficiently played off each other's negative energy.
The bullying ended when Craig asked the same question during lunch again: "What's it like, having no one notice you?" He was serious again, evident from the dark melancholy in his eyes. He wasn't chewing on pencil this time, so the words were less irate and much clearer. Token and Clyde didn't say a thing, like this was nothing, like they hadn't spent two weeks mocking him. DogPoo was pissed.
"Fuck you guys. I mean, I have family. I have friends. They notice me."
"Friends?" Craig's upper lip barely moved, "Who?"
"Um… Kenny McCormick likes me okay. Wendy Testaburger says hi sometimes. And Tweek Tweak has never been mean to me, not once."
Craig's left eyebrow rose the slightest bit.
And after that conversation, Tucker's gang started treating him better, mostly because Craig didn't bother with him anymore. DogPoo thought he had gained some kind of respect from him, for mouthing back. More weeks passed—baseball conditioning ended and DogPoo was still this scrawny, meager twig. He could run and catch, but he was a nobody still. Some juniors on the team promised that an individual's prime baseball body comes with age.
Craig said, "Stop thinking about it. Puberty is over. You're almost a grown man."
DogPoo thought: asshole.
Somehow, Craig had approached him before practice one day, asked if he wanted to throw a couple. It might've seemed like a set-up, but DogPoo had agreed. He had said, "Sure." And Craig, that shithead, he didn't say anything until he complained about DogPoo's aspirations to just be a little taller.
/
To this day, DogPoo doesn't know what prompted Craig to blossom to him of all people. Between afternoon practices and warm-up pitches, he started talking about the romance philosophy, his personal philosophy. He didn't call it a philosophy; that word is too meaningful for Craig, that fucked up macho man.
The way he speaks is very one-dimensional.
He said, "Everything's about being in the right place at the right time. It's how stories happen."
That's pretty much all Craig said. The rest is inferred: how a story doesn't happen if people don't align in the perfect place, how anyone's place anywhere could mean anything. DogPoo got to thinking about what could possibly be the right place—because South Park definitely isn't it. He got to thinking about what the right time would be, and figured that probably, they're both impatient people. Craig seemed like an impatient guy, considering his everlasting scowl and his awful attitude.
Then again, he could've been the most enduring and tolerant young man on the planet—but fuck, DogPoo didn't know. He got this feeling that Craig isn't who he seems to be when he grabbed his absent attention by tossing a baseball at DogPoo's stomach, benignly.
It was immensely weaker than what he could actually throw. DogPoo was grateful for that because Craig's been known to leave bruises and blood. He could've effortlessly ruptured DogPoo's spleen if he really tried.
"Pay attention."
DogPoo nodded. He tossed the baseball back in a nice, hill-like slope. Craig caught it. This was the process. This was simple. They were throwing a ball and catching it in their mitts: easy.
"So what's it like, having no one notice you?"
Ah. The golden fucking question is asked again. DogPoo is too preoccupied with bending for Craig's unintentionally sinker to snort. He apologized, briefly, and DogPoo is astonished because he had never heard Craig apologize for anything. DogPoo was stunned and the ball smacked into glove without him having to move and Craig said, "So?"
It was a dumb question and DogPoo didn't want to respond, but Craig was opening up to him, right? So why not reciprocate?
DogPoo inhaled, "I guess it's like being alone… Duh." He chuckled, but Craig didn't. "Then sometimes, it feels like I'm nothing. It really hurts. But I'm used to it. Being a nobody."
Craig nods as if DogPoo's sentiments are communal. But that's just silly. He's Craig Tucker.
DogPoo tosses the ball back, finally.
"Is there someone that you want to notice you?"
That question was unforeseen and a tad bit personal, but at this point, DogPoo didn't mind. He shrugged, catching the ball Craig throws. "Is there someone that you want to notice you?"
Craig was winding up, then—but he had stopped as his kneecap met his chest. He had these squinted eyes, from the sunlight easing under his cap perhaps. Craig said something like, "That doesn't matter." Or, "That's irrelevant." Or, "Maybe."
The point is, DogPoo couldn't really understand him; Craig started slinging balls fast and in curvy lines. He didn't say sorry for any toss that required ample movement from DogPoo, so it must've been intentional. Thankfully, Craig wasn't full speed and it wasn't too intense, but DogPoo had to lunge for the ball, occasionally. Sometimes, he had to jump or slide.
When DogPoo stumbled over his feet in an attempted catch, Craig threw a hand up. He waved.
He mumbled, "That's enough." His tongue was pink between his lips, skimming between a cuspid and an incisor. He loudly sucked there, before moving to the bottom row of teeth, where the slanted and crooked ones resided. DogPoo thought: Once upon a time, Craig Tucker had perfect teeth. And he took a step back, large enough to step on a small carcass.
There was a dead bird on the field, then. Usually, it's just goose shit. Or dog shit, sporadically, ironically.
Now, there's another dead bird near the fence.
Today, DogPoo is a right fielder.
The team is supposed to be split. They're supposed to be skirmishing or whatever Coach said. But DogPoo isn't paying attention; he's just looking into the dead bird's beady, black eyes—he still has them. His chest is gone, though; he can see the tiny bird ribcage and the tiny bird ribs pertaining to it. His wings are spread and DogPoo cocks his head as each ruffled feather trembles in the breeze.
Craig creeps up behind him and DogPoo knows it's him by the manner in which he says, "What the fuck are you doing?"
DogPoo points to the bird.
Nonchalantly, Craig Tucker proposes, "You should get it, Petuski. Throw it over the fence."
"Why me?"
"Don't you like that kind of thing?"
DogPoo reply stays tacit, but he looks at Craig until his face twitches with a grimace.
"Just toss it."
"I really don't wanna touch it, actually."
Craig sighs, "Whatever."
It's like, his favorite word or something. He should shack up with those Goth kids sometime.
"You don't wanna touch what, Dog Shit?"
Billy Turner, a freshman, is being nosy from left field, near Coach. DogPoo should say, "It's nothing."
What he does say is, "Come over here and look for yourself."
So Billy jogs all the way to right field from left field. He sees the bird and he pants, "Oh. A dead bird." He looks at DogPoo. "Did you touch it?"
"No."
He looks at Craig. "Did you touch it?"
"Hell no."
Billy makes this face, like what's wrong with you? He mutters, "Someone has to touch it."
And suddenly, all the players currently on the field are padding over to the bird. Stan drops his bat; Eric drops his catcher's mask. When they arrive, they make little comments like, "Why is the world so cruel?"
Stan Marsh says, "Circle of life."
Eric Cartman says, "Gawd! He fucking reeks!"
Craig exhales.
And suddenly (again), the whole baseball team is pouring out of the dugout; they're trotting to right field in an awkward beeline like they've never fucking played baseball before. DogPoo should say, "It's no biggie guys. Nothing to see here. Just some dead bird. He's rotting. He smells." Everyone else should agree. But he leaves that responsibility to Craig, who doesn't fulfill it in the least. In fact, he steps aside. He lets the team rush over and huddle around a dead bird, when they could be playing baseball.
Fuck, DogPoo should've thrown the bird over the fence when he had the chance.
Clyde whistles, "Oh, well, would you look at that?"
A junior shakes his head because it's such a shame.
And maybe it is, maybe this dead bird is tragedy embodied. Fanatical South Park bullshit hasn't happened in months, so maybe they're looking for the similar bitter drama in everything.
Even Coach and his fat fucking crazy-ass, fatter than Eric Cartman will ever be—he struts his humungous ass from left field to come look at this dead bird. The team makes a path for him. He has these spindly old man legs that aren't proportionate to his beer belly, so he has to waddle in among the team.
Then, he plucks at his silver mustache with his index finger and thumb, his right eye narrowed and twitching. His left eye is opened so extensively, all anyone can see is white. When he speaks—somehow he has this strong, filthy, southern accent in South Park, Colorado—everyone on the team turns their heads.
They transfer their attention from the bird, which they've named Ivan, which is a stupid name according to Cartman, which is something that Kenneth McCormick would do, apparently. No one asks Stan Marsh to expound, but he does anyway: "Kenny would name dead things, you know, shit that's not living." But no one wants to know, so this statement earns him this unified groan from the team because he's such a dumb, love-struck teenager, it's disgusting. Craig Tucker looks like he'll kill him in cold blood, on top of things, but that face is common now. Nonetheless, the team's attention is wordlessly given to the coach, whose lips are pursed to the point of pallor, which is obvious due to his splotchy red face.
"That's some fucked up shit boys."
DogPoo thinks of how school faculty members can't cuss around children—how they're all perpetually children; Coach could be reported for this. But as long as he's not cussing at the kids, you see. That's different than cussing to the kids and it's healthier for them: the kids.
"Real fucked up…"
Coach glances at everyone, momentarily, before stumbling back to left field, silent. People whisper.
"Oh, shit."
"Welp. We're doomed."
Tweek cries, "Just give him a moment! Y-You know how he gets."
They all know. So the baseball team stays motionless in their dead bird circle, but some of the fielders are fiddling with their gloves, the loose and unraveling strings. DogPoo sure is, until Clyde slaps his wrist. He whines.
"Okay, moment of silence for the fucking bird-"
Some smart-ass whispers, "His name is Ivan."
Clyde practically gags, "Shut the hell up! Who gives a fuck?"
Tweek timidly points at coach. He twitches. His shoulder pops up against his ear.
Stan sighs in exasperation, pinching his brow. Then he exclaims, "If we give the damn bird a damn moment of silence, if we go back to our places on the field and if we play baseball for once, maybe he won't be such a freak."
Everyone shrugs.
"And—for once—Clyde came up with good idea."
Tweek stammers, "Uh, w-well."
Clyde chuckles, "Thank you, Mister Marsh, for your honorable praise." And his laugh immediately morphs into a hiss, "You fucking asshole."
"Come on. Bow your heads-"
"Ladies, fuck what you're doing."
Ah, it's Coach from across the field. All the held breaths dissipate into soft groans and disappointed sighs.
Cartman growls, "Goddammit!"
Coach is wobbling back to the huddle; the boys are naturally making a path for his fat ass. His scrawny legs are shaking in his khakis. He's sniffling. Everyone looks at him expectantly, like what he's going to say isn't nutty.
"I'm," Coach sputters, "I'm going to bury him."
The team is still huddled around this bitch-ass dead bird, Ivan; Eric Cartman is still behind DogPoo, who's still next Clyde Donovan, who's across from Craig Tucker, who is somehow standing beside Stan Marsh. Tweek Tweak is in the front, small and wide-eyed. Everyone acts like this is the most somber shit—this poor dead bird, Ivan! But secretly, the team is pissed; DogPoo knows because Eric Cartman mutters uncomfortably hot breath on the back of his neck, "Bullshit, man."
Coach points at each and every player, tears turning his eyes subtle red and watery. It's hard to look. "I want you all to run twenty laps around the school," he says. "Fuck the skirmish. Today's about endurance."
When people witness terrible and inevitable things, they tend to close their eyes very softly, as if they were falling asleep; Clyde does that. Someone quietly hums that tune that plays when good soldiers die.
"Do it for the bird."
/
The team finishes the laps earlier than anticipated. They all pool around the sunlit field but Coach tells them to take the night off. "Rest up," he says. He's still sniveling. No one asks where Ivan is buried and Coach doesn't say. People complain.
"What the hell?"
"He does know that we have a game this week, right?"
"We can't just go home."
Clyde extends himself from his previously cramped position and wheezes, "Fuck him. Let's go to Shoddy."
Then his hands clasp on his knees again. He rasps, "When was baseball ever about endurance?"
No one answers him, but he and Eric Cartman hyperventilate in sync. The team looks at each other for confirmation, too tired to talk, but Stan groans. All eyes are on him, on his damp, sweaty brow and his upturned lips. Surprisingly, he looks like a parallel universe Craig. Abruptly, he says, "I don't want to go."
Oh, yeah. Stan Marsh usually doesn't go to the superfluous games at Shoddy. They're too long, he has homework, whatever the fuck—there's always an excuse. But maybe, because the first game of the season is this week or because everyone's begging him to (except Craig), he goes today. Stan groans again, though; Craig turns his nose up, naturally.
All the seniors and juniors reeve up their cars: Mustangs, Camaros, the occasional Ford pick-up truck. They say, "Hop in!" They say, "Get your asses in here!" They do donuts on their way out of the parking lot, which is dangerous, as Tweek cares to mention.
"No shit, Tweek Tweak," but Clyde says his full name so fast, it has to be cordial. He sounds like the noises all these cars make as their doors are unlocked.
"I-I wish they didn't do t-that."
What if they have an accident? What if someone gets hurt? These are only a few of Tweek's voiced concerns.
Craig, the Tweek whisperer, tells him not to stress. It'll be cool. If something happens, they'll probably get a new coach. Somehow, it works for Tweek.
"We'll see you there, okay?"
For some reason, DogPoo rides with Craig and Clyde in the back of some random hitter's truck. This hitter, he plays the band PUP on low volume. It doesn't make sense. The songs are like, out of context.
The whole trip, Clyde pokes at Craig's toned bicep and talks about Kenny. He still wants to beat him up for sleeping with Bebe—no offense, Dog Shit. The rest of the team thinks he should go ahead and fuck him up too, except Dog Shit and Stan obviously—but he didn't mention the plan to them, not really. His legs dangle over the edge of this guy's truck and his eyes are innocently wide, but Craig frowns; he punches Clyde's arm, hard. The thud of his fist maiming Clyde's body is nauseating.
He says, "Don't be stupid."
He says, "Leave him alone."
/
Shoddy Field is the only recreational baseball field in South Park. Every other field needs a reason or a ticket to get into, but at Shoddy, people can just hang. It's a fucking dump though. The facilities are falling apart. Back when the South Park High baseball program had momentum, enthused parents constructed Shoddy Field from grit and passion for the game of baseball.
That's about it.
Shoddy Field is also located across the railroad tracks, in the "ghetto" according to Eric Cartman. It's across the street from Kenneth's McCormick house too, but that's a minor detail. Nobody even notices when Kenny appears, except DogPoo Petuski and Stan Marsh and possibly, Craig Tucker. On his elbows, he leans over the brick wall of Shoddy Field, the wall that's half-built and too small. DogPoo waves and Kenny waves back.
Stan meets him, of course. They converse.
"You should stay and watch."
Kenny hums. Stan kisses his cheek, twice, like that'll seal the deal. He leans in to try to kiss Kenny on his mouth, but the blonder boy ducks and dips before Stan can even purse his lips.
"I can't. I'm helping Karen at the shelter today."
Stan catches his wrist, nips at the bronzed vein-ridden pulse, "The fucking animals, huh?" Kenny laughs all cheery-like and Craig breathes in through his nostrils so loud—he reminds DogPoo that he's there too, seeing what he's seeing, apparently. A muscle is working in his jaw. His eyes are dark, foreboding, ominous things. DogPoo thinks that Craig will mention how disgustingly fucking smitten Stan is; he'll make fun of him, surely.
But he just turns and goes to the dugout, wordlessly.
DogPoo is left alone in center field, stuck between studying the flirtations of lovebirds and joining Craig as he stiffly saunters to the rest of the team. It's awkward. Somewhere on the inside, he's dying. They all are.
"Marsh, if you don't leave Kenny alone we'll never start the game!"
/
It's Craig's team versus Stan's team. Or, The Mighty Morphin' Anal Rangers versus The Teenage Mutant FuckFaces.
Both makeshift teams play five innings of unadulterated baseball before the sun descends beneath the Colorado mountains, before everyone is dyed deep, pretty blue in its shadow. The sky is orange near the mountain range and purple at the far ends. In between, the clouds are outlined in an odd gradient of both those colors and DogPoo feel smaller than he actually is.
But it could've been the crowd that makes DogPoo feel tiny. After the game, the team squeezed into same the debilitated dugout. DogPoo gets pushed around like a grocery store cart. It's loud, too. Young men just love to yell.
Stan's team wins for once, so all the players following his lead beg him to come back next week, whenever they do this again. Craig's team isn't upset in general—it's all fun and games—but Craig has a lethally distinct frown. Probably, because he hates Stan, who's all like, "I dunno, guys. I kinda have things to do, you know?"
Like, make out with Kenny.
Everyone's thinking it, but no one says it—and no one's imagining it but DogPoo, because hell, why not? Kenny is pompously blonde, but he's welcoming and warm on the inside, so any kiss with him must be like that. Or it's possible that Stan takes the lead—he's that natural leader type, right? So he takes the lead and holds Kenny's arms; he kisses him like love-struck has a definition, like the word really means something. It's the way everyone wants to be kissed.
DogPoo sighs. He thinks of Craig Tucker folding his arms over chest: Whatever.
"Hey now," Clyde crawls out of the dugout instead of using the available concrete steps, and he announces from atop the field, addressing everyone below. He has his professional voice equipped, his newscaster tone: "Remember: a spanking new season of Fuck Fest starts tomorrow before school."
Eric Cartman whoops.
"We've got ourselves a star pitcher, Tucker, Craig Tucker-"
All the sinewy, hairy seniors, and the mature, eager juniors, and the nobody underclassmen clap their palms on Craig's back. His body jolts every time, but he stays indifferent and apathetic. His arms are crossed so tightly. His brows are angled over his eyes so fiercely. His mouth is twisted in this vile shape, like a frown but infinitely worse—and has it really always been this way?
DogPoo thinks, shit, lighten up a little.
Meanwhile, teammates whistle and holler like Craig has a crush, like he just got laid—but Stan doesn't. It's just something DogPoo notices out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't make an attempt to touch Craig, but he had crept toward him, shuffling through baseball bodies like he was thinking about it. DogPoo figures it's a good thing that Stan avoided contact, because Craig might've frothed at the mouth and bit his hand off.
"—and my man needs to warm up his arm, right?"
Craig interjects, quietly, "Both arms."
Ostensibly, it's not an important thing. He's just ambidextrous. He has two good and capable arms. Clyde and the baseball team laughs; Stan snorts, but luckily, Craig doesn't hear him. Someone sighs, "Hear what he's saying? Star pitcher."
The laughter dies.
Clyde proceeds: "We're accepting all volunteers for Fuck Fest, you suicidal fuck-nuggets. If you want to go head-to-head with Craig Tucker and fucking die, no one will stop you."
A senior shouts from the side, "All freshies should come and watch, unless you want to be drafted."
DogPoo remembers being drafted last year around this time in the spring. It sucked. At least he didn't have Craig.
"I'm telling you. Be there or be square."
Clyde leaps back into the dugout like it's a mosh pit; he cusses when no one catches him. Everyone's too busy popping open beer bottles on the sharp edges of the dugout. A junior hands "Dog Shit" a warm one and says that beer is the key; it'll put some meat on his bones.
"But I want muscle."
"Gotta get the meat first. Muscle comes from meat."
DogPoo tentatively takes the bottle and presses it to his lips. The beer tastes just like hot piss. He would know, right?
No one else minds, so he keeps drinking.
Clyde has a whole bag of chronic just sitting on his lap, asking if anyone has paper to roll it with. Someone says, "Puff, puff, pass."
Clyde snaps in response, "Okay, no, it's my weed and I'm not sharing it with all of you."
"Then why'd you pull it out, Donovan? Have some common sense."
Soon, you'll only be able to see the red of burning blunts, the occasional glint of beer bottles in the cresting moonlight, and the ephemeral touch of fireflies. Stan will run off earlier than the rest; he has world history homework, damn it. Eric Cartman will pass out and people will pull up his uniform to draw dicks on his stomach—because there's so fucking much space. Clyde Donovan will fall asleep in the dugout, higher than a kite. Someone will steal his weed.
Craig and Tweek will catch lightning bugs in the field, quietly. Tweek will try to ease information out of him, like, "H-How are you d-doing Craig? W-What's going on w-with you?"
But Craig will say nothing. He'll say, "Nothing."
He'll slink away to the little brick wall surrounding Shoddy Field and just sit there with an untouched beer, back to the baseball team. And he does, eventually.
DogPoo passes by him on the way home, another half-empty and terribly tepid beer in his hand for the journey. They nod at each other, awkwardly, acknowledging each other's presence. DogPoo steps past him, but Craig speaks.
"I hope Clyde doesn't kick his ass, ever."
And DogPoo stops in his tracks. He looks. Craig's nose is red; he keeps swiping at it with his sleeve. He scrunches his entire face and DogPoo Petuski sighs:
"Me too."
Craig glances at him with his creased expression, then looks back at the McCormick home, vaguely, like he shouldn't. There are silhouettes shifting in the dim light emanating inside: Kenny's mom and dad, not Kenny.
"How do you know?"
"I can just tell."
He can't; DogPoo is drunk, for Christ's sake. Craig grunts anyway.
He blinks at the bramble near the house, like he's expecting something from it, like a coyote's supposed to pounce from the bushes and maul him. It's like an unscripted change. It's like Craig is being ignored, but that's fucking funny—DogPoo coughs up his beer and all its warm, golden glory practically flies over second base. It's the kind of scene that makes DogPoo's body quiver with alcohol-induced laughter because nothing's over there, and if there was anything, it wouldn't ignore the magnitude of Craig Tucker.
/
Fuck Fest takes place on the tennis courts rather than the baseball field. The nets are gone, so it's all chunky white lines and emerald green filling them in. Black metal fences enclose the courts and the baseball team encloses the fence. Premium seats, Clyde says. The baseball team gets the premium seats first. Then the ladies squash next to the boys in their premium seats; they're important like that. Then whoever else has make due.
Before Fuck Fest, Craig throws a few pitches: at the tennis court's black fence, at the school's brick wall, at Clyde's glove. The team's there, yawning and watching, even Stan Marsh. School doesn't start in another thirty minutes, but there are students lined up to participate, to observe the imminent brutality. Word gets around quick, DogPoo supposes.
Without warning, Clyde cries, "Aw, Butterball isn't here."
Butterball: Leopold "Butters" Stotch. It's Clyde's nickname for him, even though he already has one.
Craig pounds a curveball against the brick wall of the school. He casually asks, "You care?"
Clyde cocks his head to the side. There's this brunette strand that's conspicuous against the cream color of his forehead. Tweek always wants to move it to a proper place, so Clyde swats at his determined hands as he speaks, "Mm. No, not really. Thought you would, maybe."
Craig snorts stridently, to the extreme; Tweek thinks he sneezes.
"Bless you," he says. No stutters.
As the court crams with fervent players and bystanders, Clyde takes the role of an announcer: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the first Fuck Fest of the season."
People cheer. Craig is unfazed.
"We have a whole cluster-fuck of brave souls ready to take on Craig Tucker, this ruthless motherfucker here."
People boo. Craig is unfazed.
"You know the rules: Craig gets the first shot. If he hits you, and I sincerely hope he doesn't, you have to take another. Like a man. Now if you somehow manage to dodge one of his fastballs, Craig, my man, has to let each of the remaining players take a free shot. The game ends. But that's impossible with Craig. It's never been done."
Stan murmurs, "Maybe that'll change?"
Craig isn't unfazed; his expression contorts to a flared nostril, crumpled brow, prominent frown catastrophe. It's obvious that Craig hears him; he flashes Stan his middle finger and noticeably lingers until Stan says, "Okay, I get it. Damn."
Subsequently, Clyde concludes. "Remember: you cannot leave this court until Craig has murdered all of you or until one of you dodges a baseball. Don't run! Do not! If you try to escape, you're a pussy for life!"
Clyde's tongue is peeking from between his teeth. DogPoo cringes.
"It's a lovely morning. Let's bleed a little."
So, Fuck Fest starts. For an instant, Craig is completely stationary; his baseball is new and white and it twirls amid his fingers. He's choosing his victim. Once he finds him, he chucks this curveball that has the ball spinning so fast the crimson stitching blurs with the pallid skin and its existence becomes pink.
The ball clips this victim's ribs as he tries to escape. Honestly, it's not the best pitch Craig's every thrown, but it works. It must hurt, too. The victim cries out and the throng of spectators winces.
The baseball team, on the contrary, laughs—even sweet, paranoid Tweek.
A girl squeals: "They're gonna fucking die."
But everyone knows this. Clyde said it himself. Over to the side, he's leaning against the fence. He's nodding, smugly.
The other players of Fuck Fest scoot; the victim is left lonesome. This is how it looks to be head-to-head with Craig Tucker. He turns so his backside is facing him. His fingers massage his wounded ribs.
"Go ahead, Tucker. Do your worst."
Craig winds up—short-lived and beautiful. As soon as the moment passes, he slams a fastball into the back of his skull.
Stan pinches the skin between his eyebrows again. He shouts, "That was uncalled for, Tucker."
And Tucker, Craig, snarls: "Fuck you. They're all here."
DogPoo knows what the fuck that means. These poor boys in opposition to Craig are gonna get what they get. They're here for this, they're here.
DogPoo thinks: we're all here too. Everyone's in their own corners of the world, in their fucking bubbles unaware. We're all doing something, somewhere. We're living our stories. Wherever it may be, we're here and sometimes that's just enough. Sometimes, that's the whole story itself: just being here. It's what Craig believes. It's his philosophy.
But DogPoo thinks it's more than that. It's more than being here, watching Craig Tucker splice baseballs into young men's groins, hearing Clyde cackle and Eric ask, "Did you see that? Fucking hilarious!"
What if it's about the transition from Point A to Point B? How did we get here, or here, or here? What's the real story—not in the great scheme of things—but individually? How did Clyde get that scar, how did Craig lose his cool, how did Stan fall in love? How did that dead bird (Ivan) end up on South Park High's baseball field?
How'd it die?
Whatever happened for that bird to wind up there, of all places?
/
So, now, there's a dead raccoon on the side of the road, across from Kenny's house, in front of Shoddy Field. He's flatter than day old beer. DogPoo pokes him with a stick. And Craig Tucker notices, because when he approaches he says:
"See? You like these things."
"Dirt, maybe, but not…" DogPoo mutters, "Dead things."
Craig facial features curtly warp. He snaps, "What's your problem?"
DogPoo stares at the dried bloodstain on the pavement for a moment. He thinks he sees a missing raccoon tooth. He smiles, weakly.
"Kenny."
Craig flinches, almost.
"I mean, I'm thinking of naming the raccoon like he would. And Kenny, he's there. You know."
DogPoo gestures at the decrepit house across the street, amongst his chopped and diminishing phrases. Craig's eyes follow and he turns so he's half facing the McCormick household. He tacks on, "It's all related."
The lights are off, tonight. No silhouettes. And yet, Craig looks. He's sidelong, but strangely apathetic. He's silent, but strangely, a muscle is working in his jaw, pulsing. His body language is heartfelt, strangely, despite the hands coolly delved in his pockets and the way he stands on the cracked pavement, half his cleats tipping off the curb. Craig blinks slowly, over and over. He swallows this giant lump that slithers down his throat steadily.
DogPoo doesn't want to stare at the seemingly new tumor descending his esophagus, so his gaze goes down to the raccoon. It has skid marks on his back.
"He looks like a Herbert."
DogPoo glances at Craig's expression; unexpectedly, he's looking back at him with a faint frown, like the raccoon smells of decomposition. DogPoo supposes it does, but he's more engrossed with the name Herbert. Really? He looks at Craig skeptically.
"I'm serious."
He's serious. DogPoo thinks: poor, dead, tragic Herbert! Or maybe, he says the phrase aloud: poor, dead Herbert! Oh, the tragedy! DogPoo thinks it's the latter, because Craig's thick, dark brows have abruptly arched in that murderous fashion, his mouth is twisted in that vile shape—the apathy is gone and the fierceness is back. DogPoo thinks, fuck, lighten up-
"Hey, we didn't come here to have a damn funeral Petuski. Are you gonna play baseball, or not?"
Ah, yeah. Baseball. He's here for baseball.
/
Edited as of January 12th, 2018