Chapter 3: I Wasn't Born Again Yesterday

Disclaimer: South Park, and all the characters in it, belong to Matt Stone and Trey Parker.

"Gentlemen," said Cartman, pacing back and forth in front of the row of chairs in his basement, "I'm glad you could make it to this meeting."

Stan glanced over at his fellow captive audience members, Butters, Token, Kenny, and of course, Kyle, who looked especially annoyed.

"Just spit it out, ass-master," Kyle said. "What do you want this time?"

Cartman ignored him. "As you are perhaps aware, Kyle and I have a bet on which of us will make the first platinum album."

"Holy crap. Aren't you over that yet?" Stan said impatiently.

"No."

Everyone, except for Butters, got out of their seats and started heading for the stairs.

"No, wait, Goddamnit, you have to listen to me myah!"

"Why?" Some said it, some only thought it.

"Because if you help me, and this comes out right, we could all make ten million dollars. Apiece. At least. Right, Butters?"

"Wu-well, yeah, Eric, close, about 49 million on the first CD, anyway, but . . . ."

"We just start up Faith +1 again. It's a revival. Revival, geddit? We get back together again. It'll be bigger than a Beatles reunion."

"Uh, um, a-actually, no, Eric, cause two of 'em are dead and they'd have to come back to life again first, an-an'—well, that would prob'ly be a big ol'. . . "

"Shut up, Butters."

"Oh. OK."

"It'll be big. Bigger than big." Cartman was moving into major persuasive mode, but Token wasn't having it. He actually came back down the stairs and marched straight up to Cartman, eyes blazing.

"See, Cartman, this is why I hate you," Token snapped. "Do you want to know why I hate you? It's not because you're a racist asshole. I already know you're a racist asshole and frankly, I don't give a good goddamn about it. I don't care what you think about me, and I don't care whether you think it because I'm black or for some other reason, because basically, I just figure you're stupid."

Cartman turned to Kyle. "You see?" he said, gesturing towards Token. "This is how you handle situations like this. You don't go getting warts up your ass about it, I've been trying to tell you that, but you're so fucking oversensitive that—"

"Shut up," Token said, cutting Cartman off. "As I said, I don't hate you because you're a racist asshole. I see it coming a mile away, in more ways than one."

"EY!"

"But here's my problem with you, Cartman," Token went on as though he hadn't heard. "You get these ideas. And they're always big ideas, and half the time you want to drag everyone along with you, and half the time you're going to fuck everybody over. But you don't plan. You don't think things through. You've got no impulse control and you have no sense of scale."

Wow, Stan thought. Token should become a shrink or something when he grew up.

"Tell me," Token continued, "you're planning on re-starting this band, right? And ignoring the little problem that I fucking hate you, it's going to be a big deal. You're going to make, excuse me, we're going to make about 40 or 50 million dollars at least out of this. And you're doing all this to win a ten-dollar bet? Anything wrong with this picture?"

Cartman thought a minute.

"MMmmm, not really, no."

Token threw up his hands.

"Fuck this," he said, "I'm getting out of here." He started back up the stairs and everyone else began to follow him. Cartman actually ran to stop them.

"No! no, you guys, listen, serioushleh! What if I had a plan to make sure that wouldn't happen again?

"And just what the hell would that be, fat-ass?"

Cartman smirked. "I'm putting you in charge of the business end, Jew boy."

"What?" Kyle exclaimed. "Why the hell would you do that?"

"Because you know about money. It's like Token and playing the bass, your people have natural accountancy rhythm."

Kyle's face started to match his hair. "I'm leaving right now," he stated flatly.

"Oh, and you couldn't use ten million dollars?" Cartman jeered. "Ike couldn't use ten million dollars? With tuition what it is? Ike goes straight through medical school and comes out not owing a dime to anybody, you don't think that's worth it?"

Stan stared at his friend. No, Kyle, he begged silently. Some stuff is never worth it. Come on, Kyle, put your foot down, give one of your—umm—gay little speeches about how this isn't. . . .

"Hmmm," Kyle said. "Hmmm."

Cartman sat down, one leg almost but not quite flipped over the other in a casual pose.

"I am so for serioushly, you guys. Look," he said, "you're right."

Now they all sat down, except for Butters, who had never gotten up in the first place. Token stared.

"Excuse me?"

"I said, you're right, Token. I don't always keep an eye on all the details." He sighed and gazed up at something on the ceiling. "It's just the price we visionaries pay."

Kyle snorted.

"Without support people, it's true, I wouldn't be able to do it." He glared. "And you know, it hurts me to say this, because I really, really, seriously hate you guys. "

That was true enough, Stan thought, and judging from the expressions on everyone else's faces, they were thinking the same thing.

"But Kyle here," Cartman continued, "he'll notice all those gay little details. He'll pay attention to, I don't know, taxes, and laws, and payroll and shit that I just wouldn't notice because---"

"—because you're retarded," finished Kyle. Cartman merely smiled.

"Very funny, Kyle. Like I said. You'll pay attention because it's your money too. You'll be watching that bottom line and making sure we make money. You'll actually help me win my bet against you." He waved his hands in the air. "Oh, yeah."

Silence.

"What do you think, Butters?" Kyle asked. The question was clearly completely unexpected. Butters almost fell off his chair.

"Hu-huh?"

"Yes," Token said, "what do you think, Butters?'

Butters looked very uncomfortable. He twisted his hands. "Uh, you, uh, you're askin', um, you know, my opinion?" he asked, trying to clarify matters.

"Yes."

Butters looked down at his hands, at the floor, at anything except for the other boys in Cartman's basement. "Uh. . . .whatever you fellas think is ok with me."

Stan smacked his face into his hand. "No, Butters, right now we're trying to find out what you think. What do you want to do?"

"Uh. . . " said Butters, "um. . . I just want to do whatever you fellas want to do."

"Well, that settles it, then," Cartman said briskly. "Butters is in."

"Not so fast, fat-ass," Kyle said. "Butters," he said more gently, in the kind of voice he used when Ike got worried that he was up for getting his wee-wee chopped off again, "we don't all want to do the same thing. So it's really important to know what you want to do."

Stan looked over at Butters, who was now trying to read everyone's facial expression in turn.

"Wu-well," Butters said slowly, "I just like playin' the drums. An'—an' bein' part of somethin'." He looked a little braver now. "You know, Eric was right about Token bein' good at the bass, even if it was for a kinda stupid reason—I'm sorry, Eric, but it was—an' I didn't think I was any good at my drums. Uncle Bud got 'em for me for Christmas and I dunno, I just didn't feel much like playin' with 'em. But then Eric told me I had ta be in his band and I guess I got pretty good. So maybe you'd be good at business, Kyle, I mean. . . " he added, "you wouldn't know if you don't give it a try."

Kyle thought this over for a minute.

"OK, fatass," he said finally. "The bet's back on—but first, there's a new bet."

"Go ahead, Jewmeister."

"Nobody is doing anything until you get Faith +1 some credibility. You lost it, you get it back. Got it? That means your whole stupid scheme is on hold until you can prove that anyone is gonna take you seriously."

"Yeah," Token agreed. "I am still super pissed at you about losing our audience. If you get it back, I'll haul the bass back out of the basement."

Cartman stood up slowly, and smiled. It was an evil smile; a very strange smile for someone who was about to start up a Christian anything.

"Two weeks. Just give me two weeks. Start learning Quickbooks, Shylock," he added.

The boys started filing out. Stan stopped suddenly.

"Hey, wait a minute," he said. "I don't understand. You need Butters on drums and Token on bass. You want Kyle to handle the business part of things. So why'd you ask me and Kenny over here? What do you want us to do?"

"Stan," Cartman replied, "It's a very simple task. I want you to watch Kyle for me."

"What?"

"Yeah. I don't want him embezzling from the band. And as much as you love Kyle, I don't think you would cover that up forever, Mr. I-Broke-the-Dam. Sheesh."

Stan stared back at Cartman. "You really are a total asshole, Cartman."

"Fuck you very much too, Stan."

"Mmmhmphm?" Kenny asked.

"Oh," Cartman said casually, "you can handle the pyrotechnics."

Kenny's eyebrows disappeared into the top of his hood.

"I cannot believe we are missing Terrance and Philip for this," grumbled Stan, two weeks later. Kyle sat next to him on the sofa at the Marshes' house. The Broflovskis were possibly the only household in town that was not going to be watching KPOX tonight. As usual, when Cartman was going to be on television, he made sure everybody knew about it.

There was a knock at the door. Stan got up to answer it. "Oh, hey, Kenny," he said, greeting his friend. "You're just in time to see Fatass on television."

"Hmmmphm," Kenny said. Kyle looked up.

"Hey, Kenny," he said. "Have some Snacky Smores."

"Shh," said Stan. "Here it comes." They all sat back on the sofa.

"And NOW, it's time for "Eyes on the Prize" with Fred Robson! Brought to you live from the Church-a-Rama Dome in Colorado Falls! With the musical talents of the Church-a-Rama Choir, Sanctified, and special guest, Eric Cartman from Faith +1!"

Second-rate metal music blared. "Wow, Sanctified," said Stan, "weren't they that band that Cartman locked in the janitor's room at Christfest? Boy, they must really, really hate his guts."

Kyle looked extra cheerful, but just passed Stan a bag of Cheesy Poofs. The camera swooped in on a gigantic church with theatrical lighting. It was like a theater or a concert hall, and you really wouldn't have known it was a church if it hadn't been for the huge cross hanging over the stage. Kyle nudged Kenny.

"That's one thing," he said. "I don't care what Cartman says—if he pulls this off, we are not going to be using that much fake fog." Fred Robson appeared dramatically out of the smoke. Stan was suddenly possessed with terrific news hair envy.

"PRAISE HIM!" Fred Robson yelled, as Sanctified stopped playing.

"PRAISE HIM!" echoed the crowd.

"This could go on for a while," mused Kyle.

Kyle wasn't wrong. There was about five solid minutes of praising and hallelujah-ing before the preacher/showman got down to business. Then it was time for another number from Sanctified before another sermon that seemed to be all about how reading Harry Potter was going to send your kids straight to hell.

"Now, brothers and sisters, I want you to open up your hearts and your spirits extra wide. Because tonight we are welcoming back the last lost lamb to the fold. Yes, you sit there in your pew or at home watching this, and you think, brothers and sisters, 'I'm a Christian, I'm a good person, I'm not going to fall from grace,' and let me tell you, you are WRONG. Because our special guest was once the leading light of Christian rock, the darling of Jesus' eye, and he let himself slide straight into the depths of DE-pravity. But tonight he is back with us to testify how sweet it is to be washed in the blood of the Lamb—ERIC CARTMAN!"

Cartman was suddenly revealed at the back of the stage. The lights appeared to be getting right in his eyes, and he looked a little confused. Evidently, he hadn't been expected a lead-in quite like this. But he made his way up to the preacher as confidently as though he had.

"PRAISE JESUS!" Robson yelled, shaking Cartman's hand—hard, it looked like.

"Yes. Praise Jesus."

"Eric Cartman, you were once an evangelist yourself, and you were the lead singer of a band called Faith +1," Robson began.

"Yes, Fred, yes, I was."

"And that band was once at the very top. You were awarded a myrrh album. And yet, the very same day—"

An 80-foot screen in the back of the room was suddenly filled with the image of a somewhat younger Cartman, screaming and jumping up and down.

"FUCK JESUS! I'LL SAY IT AGAIN-- FUCK JESUS!" The congregation gasped. "Now," the preacher said kindly, "what on earth possessed you to do a thing like that?"

"Umm—I was annoyed?" Cartman asked. "Look, it was a really bad, stupid thing to do, and uh, I'm sorry, Jesus. OK?"

"Yes," Robson carried on. "But as we found out, it wasn't the only time you gave way to sin."

A montage flickered up on the screen. There was Cartman selling fetuses to a seafood restaurant. Cartman in drag yelling,"Whuteva! I do what I waunt!" Cartman licking tears off a sobbing Scott Tenorman's face: "OOOoo, let me taste your tears, Scott! The tears of ultimate sadness!" The lights came back on. The congregation seemed to be too stunned to react. "Pretty bad, Eric. Wouldn't you say?"

"Whoa, dude," said Stan. "This is pretty fucked up right here."

Cartman definitely looked uncomfortable now. "You know—all those things you just showed—I mean, they do look pretty bad, but those all happened before I was saved."

"Did they? Robson cried. "Did they? Did you or did you not build your own church in South Park and preach the gospel before those events we just saw?" He was really bearing down on Cartman now. "But let's give you the benefit of the doubt." Robson smiled, and Cartman looked relieved. Then Robson wiped the smile off his face as though he were cleaning a window. "Now let's see what happened after you were—supposedly—saved."

Footage of Cartman racing through Casa Bonita, mere feet in front of the police. Footage of Cartman dressed up as Britney Spears and singing, "Would you like to touch my body?" Footage of Cartman leading an anti-Semitic rally. Even footage of Cartman ramming the Beaverton dam and swimming—heavily--away. Stan thought he could read Cartman's lips mouthing, "How the hell did they get hold of that?"

"Now," said Robson impressively, waving his hand, "you have just seen the depths to which a child—a mere child—can sink!" He rounded on Cartman. "You, young man, yes, you! You are only thirteen years old, and yet you are old in the ways of evil. How does this come to be?" he asked, leaning down so he was eyeball to eyeball with Cartman.

"You know," Kyle remarked conversationally, "it's kind of interesting to see Cartman on the receiving end of this for once."

Cartman writhed. "Euuugh . . .ueeeegh. . . I don't really, um, have a father. . . and . . . Mehm—um, Mehm's, well, a crack whore. . ."

"DAMN," said Stan, watching, at once both fascinated and repelled. "He must be really desperate. He usually tries to leave his Mehhhm out of this stuff."

"No," Robson said, fixing Cartman with his gaze, backing him away.

"No?"

"No. You see," Robson said, turning to the congregation again, "not society, not parents, not anything can explain DE-pravity such as this. Only one thing can explain it. . . "

He wheeled around and shouted to the rafters.

"This boy is POSSESSED! And so shall ye all be, America, for who among you is so pure as to cast the first stone? I say, this child is POSSESSED!"

"Mmmhmphhmmm!" squeaked Kenny.

"Yeah!" agreed Stan. "I mean, he was, but you came right out his ass again! Who does this guy think he is?"

Robson slammed his hand heavily onto Cartman's forehead.

"I command you, Satan, to come OUT of this child!"

Satan, of course, wasn't in Cartman and couldn't have heard him anyhow. He was having too much fun at the luau.

"COME OUT!" Robson yelled, slamming Cartman down onto the stage. "COME OUT, OUT, I SAY!"

"Wow, dude," said Kyle. "Almost makes me feel like getting your wee-wee snipped is no big deal."

Cartman's head was getting pounded into the stage with a sort of thudding sound reminiscent of over-ripe melons. Robson gestured at two large men, who hauled the boy to his feet. Several other men were pushing a kind of tank downstage.

"Hmmmhph!"

"Yeah, I think it is, Kenny," Stan said.

"I'm sorry," said Kyle, "but you're going to have to explain this one to me."

"Well," Stan said, "this is that water thing, you know, baptism."

"Oh, yeah," Kyle said darkly. He was obviously remembering getting sprayed for hours by Wacky Water Weasel and Cartman's unpleasant little Christmas story. Stan hurried on. Onstage, Cartman was being dragged backwards up to the tank.

"Only, y'know, Cartman and Kenny and me—we're all Catholics. So they did it to us ages ago, when we were babies. So we wouldn't have to think about it later. And anyway, Father Maxi usually just drizzles a little water on your head. But—"

Stan was interrupted by a large SPLOOOSH! as Cartman hit the water. Archimedes' theory of water displacement was being proven again even as he spoke. Robson hadn't planned on quite such a large wave. His expensive shoes had gotten soaked and he was clearly annoyed.

"BLUB," floundered Cartman. Robson hauled him out—with help.

"Ye are washed! Ye are made CLEAN! Ye are SAVED!"

Cartman wheezed, dripping wet, eyes empty.

Robson turned back to the congregation.

"Be sure to look for Eric's new CD, and the much-awaited return of his band, Faith +1!" The congregation cheered. Stan changed the channel.

"Well," Kyle said, "I'd think that would establish his credibility, don't you think? I guess," he sighed, "we're in business."

There was a pounding at the door.

"Stan! Stan! Let me in!"

"Wendy?"

"Come on, or I'll have to break down this door!"

"Sure," said Stan, running to the door, and wondering why most of the women in his life had such short fuses. Wendy ran past him into the living room.

"Did you see that?" she yelled, gesturing at the television. It was pointless to pretend that they didn't know what she was talking about. "He's bringing Faith +1 back! You can't let this happen!"

Kyle and Stan exchanged puzzled looks. "Why not? What's the big deal?"

"Stan, don't you get it? It's not just the rock band—that's just Cartman being an asshole. It's not even about the religious thing. But this is part of a whole message. If you get involved in this, you'll be part of something that'll stop science being taught in schools, that'll make it just terrible for Jews, Kyle, and for gay people, too—I mean, if anyone should understandjust why this is so important . . ."

"Huh?"

Wendy sighed. "Never mind. Look, Token told me all about this. I tried to explain why it's going to be so bad, but he just wouldn't listen. He said Cartman would never convince anybody to believe they were really a Christian rock group. But after this!"

"Yeah," Kyle said, nodding. "I've gotta say, the assmaster was pretty convincing up there."

"Are you sure he was acting? I know Cartman tried running a church of his own before. I know Cartman can be—really charismatic when he wants to, but I think Robson was too much even for him. He's going to be their tool! What am I saying--he's going to be a god-damned nuclear warhead! You know how much damage Cartman can do on his own—how much damage do you think a brainwashed Cartman can do?"

Kenny patted Wendy's back, perhaps a little longer and a little lower than she would have preferred. Stan tried to reassure her.

"Don't worry, Wendy," he said. "We won't be spreading any kind of a message. We're only in it for the money."

Wendy did not appear to be consoled. "Just wait," she said. "This is going to get really ugly. If you boys want to go off and play rock star, fine. But the second things get political, I am going to put a stop to this."

"How?" Stan asked.

She pulled her beret down tight around her ears and smiled grimly. "Let's just say that it is not a good idea to fuck with me. Come on, Kenny, walk me home." She grabbed Kenny and pulled him along as she left. The door slammed behind her.

Kyle shuddered. "Crap, dude."

"You said it. She's really bugged about this whole political thing," Stan said, shaking his head.

Kyle frowned. "About politics? Or about Cartman?"

"Nah. Why would Wendy worry about Cartman?"

"Kenny," Wendy said, as they walked the short distance towards her house, "I am really worried about Cartman."

"Hmmmphmmm?" asked Kenny.

"I can't talk to you like this, Kenny. Put down your hood and let me look you in the eye."

Kenny put down his hood. He was a medium blond, and had an exceptionally sweet face, without any of the over-softness that marked Butters'. And he had a lovely smile.

"Better?" he asked.

"A lot better," Wendy said. "You're kind of cute, Kenny—why don't you wear your hood down more?"

Kenny shrugged.

"Anyway, I wanted to talk to you because you're Cartman's best friend. As much as he has a best friend."

"It is sort of a weird job," Kenny agreed. "Why don't you ask Butters?"

"Butters definitely could not do this," Wendy said, shaking her head.

Kenny rolled his eyes. "Oh, God. This isn't going to be one of those retarded ask-the-best-friend-so-the-best-friend-can-ask-if-he-likes-me kind of things?"

Wendy turned pink. "No! No! What gave you that idea? I hate Cartman!"

"Uh-huh," Kenny said noncommittally.

"Well, I do," she frowned. "Anyway, this is nothing like that. I honestly think Cartman might have been brainwashed back there. You saw what they did to him."

Kenny put his arm around Wendy. "Listen, darlin'. . ." he began.

"Less of the touchies, " she said.

Kenny dropped his arm. "Like I was saying," he continued, "I wouldn't worry about that. There is a core of pure selfish evil to Cartman that simply can't be touched."

Wendy sighed. "I sure hope so."

"Really," Kenny insisted, "Cartman knows all about this stuff—heck, he's done it himself. You can't bullshit a bullshitter."

"Maybe you're right," Wendy said. "But I'm worried about what kind of monster a really evangelical Cartman would be. And so that is why," she added, "I want you to promise me something. If you see any signs—any signs—that Cartman isn't his usual assholic self, I want you to beat the crap out of him." Kenny's eyebrows rose. "I don't mean it that way—I just mean his brain probably got a shock back there. So please, if he shows any symptoms, just do something—anything—that will knock some sense into his brain."

Kenny nodded. "I think I know just the thing." They finished their walk in silence.

A/N: The churches and preachers here are fictionalized composites.

Stay tuned for some brand-new Faith+1 songs in the next chapter.