The Return of Faith +1
Disclaimer: The characters from South Park belong to Matt Stone and Trey Parker.
Chapter Two: Goin' to the Chapel-teria
Mrs. Garrison was not kidding. The Chapel-teria was a huge room, part cafeteria, part chapel, and part auditorium. A stage stood at one end of the room. Sitting at a table in the back was a friendly-looking man. He had gray hair and he was wearing two-toned shoes. And he was playing the ukulele.
The class lined up to get their food.
"I miss Chef," Stan thought.
"I miss him too," said Kyle.
"Did I say that out loud?" thought Stan. "Is Kyle reading my thoughts now?"
"I miss Salisbury Steak Day."
"Mmm hm-mm MMMMM hm hm mum HM-HMMMM," sang Kenny reminiscently.
"Not here, Kenny," Stan said, cutting him off, "I don't think those words are appropriate in this kind of place."
There wasn't any Salisbury steak, although the food seemed ok.
"Let's sit at the back," said Kyle, "I've had about enough of this place and of Mrs. Garrison, too." They slid in near the ukulele player.
"Excuse me, can we sit here?"
"Sure," said the gray-haired guy.
"You play ukulele? That's, like, the goofiest thing I've ever seen," said Cartman, rolling his eyes.
"Well, it's funny you should mention that," the man agreed, "because I have been Goofy. On more than one occasion. 'HU-HEY, KIDS!'" he added.
"Wow," said Stan. "You sound like Butters on steroids."
"What?"
"Just forget it."
"You kids having a nice time?"
Something about the man seemed trustworthy, so Kyle went for it.
"Not really, dude," he admitted, "it kinda sucks ass."
"It does, doesn't it," the man agreed. "So what are nice people like us doing in a place like this?"
"Our teacher Mrs. Garrison dragged us here." The man frowned.
"You mean the sort of bald graying guy with a set of tits?"
"That's the one. What about you?"
The man sighed. "I'm recording a radio show. Normally they record it in Hollywood, but there's a live special coming up and I've got to be here for it."
"Are you, like, a big Christian or something?" asked Stan.
"No," said the man. "I draw cartoons."
Something about that didn't make sense to Stan, but he let it go. "So how come you do a Christian radio show?"
"It's kind of a long story. See, years ago, someone said to me, 'hey, we want to do a radio show, could you be on it,' and I thought, sure, why not? There are hardly any radio dramas anymore, and there used to be tons, and this was my chance to do something new. So I made a few of them—it didn't pay much-- then it took off, and we made a few more. And then I came here, and I saw how huge the place was, and then I asked them how many radio stations we were on. I figured on, oh, about ten or something."
"So how many was it?" Kyle asked, curious.
"1400 in the North American market," said the man, and then ducked just in time as Cartman sprayed his Dr. Pepper across the table. "I thought it was kind of a lot, too. I had no idea what a big operation the Christian media market is."
"Wow," said Stan. "Just—wow."
"Yeah, there's not a lot of competition. Churches encourage just watching Christian shows and listening to Christian music, so there's nothing to compare it to. You can play really crappy music and get away with anything."
"How about you guys on the radio show?" Kyle asked. The man looked abashed.
"Well, I'm not terribly proud of it," he admitted, "but we really do try to have a good show within certain limitations. And sometimes we get away with stuff. The suits don't know it," he said with an evil glint, "but my character is secretly Jewish. And an atheist." Kyle smiled back. "Would you boys like to hear a tune?"
"No, " they said firmly.
The man looked disappointed.
"Oh, OK," he said. "Then I'll be heading off now. Toodles."
"Wow, Cartman," said Stan, "sound like you really could have made a fortune."
"Yeah, yeah, don't remind me, numb-nuts," Cartman snapped, "Butters already said so. Well, I don't care anyway, because I wanted to make a platinum album, not a stupid myrrh album."
"I thought your plan all along was to cross over," said Kyle innocently. Cartman's mouth dropped open.
"Too bad you alienated your audience so badly they never even want to hear about Faith +1 again," Stan said sympathetically.
"Hey, " Kyle said with a frown, "where's fat-ass going?"
Butters was being dragged unceremoniously up towards the small stage in the front of the room.
"Wu-what's this about, Eric? Aw, no, I don't wanna. I don't wanna. I d-didn't even f-finish my lunch yet."
"C'mon, Butters, you know the song." Cartman grabbed a tambourine off a nearby table, equally useful as instrument and as a weapon.
"No, I don't, I don't even know which one you mean," Butters gabbled, trying to wriggle out of Cartman's grasp.
"Come on. I'm gonna make, make it right. . . ."
Butters responded reluctantly.
"I'm gonna take a little time and set things straight."
"Make, make it right. . . ."
The two were singing together now. "I'm payin' for my sins and it sure feels great."
People were looking up as they kept singing. "Feels so good to be makin' up/For all the things I done wrong. . . " Token slid down in his seat. "Aw, crap," he muttered.
A couple of men in suits, who were also having lunch, nudged each other.
"Do those kids look familiar to you?"
"They kind of sound familiar." People started to gather around the stage.
"They do sound familiar."
"OK, Butters," Cartman hissed, and tossed him the tambourine. "Keep the beat up. AND—"
He fell to his knees as Butters slammed the tambourine, totally carried away.
"The body of Christ! Sleek swimmer's body, all muscled up and toned!
The body of Christ! Oh, what a body, I wish I could call it my own!"
Stan, Kenny, and Kyle watched, horrified and yet unable to look away. It was like watching a snake slowly engulf a lizard on National Geographic. Cartman was waving his hands in the air now and the group around the stage was clapping.
"Ooooo, Lord Almighty, I've never been so enticed!
Oooo I wish I could have the body of Christ!"
"I wish he had the body of Christ, too," muttered Kyle, "then we wouldn't have to sit behind his fat ass all the time." The group around the stage was applauding now as Cartman panted and made little gestures of self-deprecation.
"Oh, no, please, you're too kind, it's this place, I just felt so---inspired."
Stan saw Wendy nudge Bebe. "You know, I keep forgetting about this," he heard her say, "but Cartman really has a great voice."
Stan smacked his face into his palm. "Aw, crap no," he groaned. "Not this again."
A few minutes later, Butters standing miserably by his side and pockets stuffed with business cards, Cartman was saying goodbye to the last of the group of recording executives who wanted to talk to him.
"Oh, thank you, it's too much, no really, I mean, come out of retirement? After that terrible, tragic mistake—well, I'm just an ordinary kid, trying to lead an ordinary life. . . well, yes, maybe, I'll think it over," he conceded. Most of the rest of the class had already left—Cartman held no fascinations for them. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Wendy Testaburger hovering. "You go ahead, Butters. We'll talk about this later." Butters ran out of the Chapel-teria, glad to be going.
"Cartman," began Wendy, "I wanted to talk to you."
Cartman's eyebrows came down and he glared at her, arms crossed.
"Yeah, I'll just bet you do, bitch. It's going to be this again, is it? 'OOooo, Eric's so funny with those toy animals, Eric's so gooood in the school play, I think I'll kiss him and fuck with his head for a while. Oh, well, his head's good and fucked with now, back to Stan!' Well, not this time," he said. "I am going to be rich, I am going to be famous, and in six months there will be women all over me applying for the position of Cartman's Official Ho, and guess what, bitch, you are not going to get the job."
"Actually," said Wendy, "that wasn't what I wanted to talk to you about."
Cartman looked stunned. "It wasn't?"
"No," Wendy said firmly.
"So . . .. what did you want to talk to me about?"
"I wanted to talk you out of doing this. You're taking advantage of people, people who really believe in all this."
"And how do you know I don't?"
She paused. "Well, I don't think you do," she said finally. "And some of this is really kind of creepy, too. All the political stuff . . ."
"Oh, Jesus---"
"See, that's what I mean."
"You stupid pathetic hippie. It's just an act, ok? Now butt out. It's none of your business. Just—just leave me alone."
"Fine," snapped Wendy. She turned on her heel and marched out of the Chapel-teria. It took Cartman a good minute and a half to remember what he wanted to yell at her.
"Screw you, bitch! I'm going home!" he screamed, waving a fist.
"Well, better hurry, because the bus is leaving!"
"GOD---um, be praised," Cartman amended as he broke into a run. "God DAMN it," he thought as he flung himself onto the bus, breathing heavily, "God DAMN it, God damn her." He sat down as the bus lurched ahead, nearly obliterating Kenny, then smiled.
Ten million dollars, he thought. I bet she changes her tune then.
Author's note: The Chapel-teria is real, too. The guy with the ukulele is a friend of mine who is going to remain nameless to preserve his privacy, but when he says he's been Goofy, he isn't bragging.