Disclaimer: South Park and its characters belong to Matt Stone and Trey Parker. See end notes for specific references.
Chapter 4: Savior Self
The next day, Cartman wasn't at the bus stop. He wasn't in school. Stan passed Kyle a note--
Where is Fatass?
Kyle grabbed the note and unfolded it carefully. He frowned. Stan knew that Kyle had long ago given up on the idea that he would learn anything useful from Mrs. Garrison, but he hadn't given up on the idea of getting into a good school. Instead, he had taken to bringing books to class and studying while tuning Mrs. Garrison out. He didn't necessarily read books on the subject the class was covering, either—it wasn't unusual for him to be reading history during math class or doing algebra as Mrs. Garrison taught English. He didn't always like to be passed notes in class. It interrupted perfectly good study time. He scrawled a hasty reply and tossed it back to Stan.
Probably working the phone.
And that was another odd thing, too, Stan thought. He had been expecting a triumphant phone call from Cartman as soon as he got home. Something along the lines of "How's that for credibility, gaywad?" with perhaps a "nehnehnehnehneh-neh, hehhehhehhehheh-heh" thrown in. But there had been no phone call. Kyle hadn't gotten a phone call, either. Maybe Cartman had called Token.
But when they caught up with Butters and Token at lunch, they hadn't gotten any phone calls from Cartman either.
"Whoa, boy," said Butters happily, as he sat down with Kyle, Stan, and Kenny. "Chicken cutlet. My f-favorite."
Was there anything that didn't make Butters happy? Stan wondered.
Token came by with Craig, Clyde, and Tweek. "I'll see you guys later," he was saying. "I've gotta talk to Kyle and Stan." Clyde nodded and they moved off. Token slid in next to Butters.
"You heard about the TV program last night?' Stan asked Token.
"Heard about it. Didn't watch it," Token said, looking disapprovingly at the chicken cutlet. "I don't need to watch Thomas the Racist Tank Engine; I figured you'd tell me anything I really needed to know. So how'd he do?"
Kyle and Stan exchanged glances.
"Good—I think," Stan said finally. "I mean, I think he actually got rid of the credibility problem."
"Oh, man," Token sighed. "I guess that means we have to go over to his house for rehearsal this afternoon."
"We don't know," Kyle admitted.
"You don't know?" Token asked, surprised.
"No. I mean, I haven't heard from him. Have you, Butters?"
Butters looked worried now. "G-golly, no, fellas, was I supposed to? I'm su-sorry, Mom made me go to bed at eight 'cause she said the whites aren't bright enough again, an'-an' I guess I didn't separate the colors right, but ho-honest to g-gosh, I used the little stain stick and everythin', I ju-just don't know what I'm d-doin' wrong. . ."
Stan interposed hastily. "That's nice. OK, you didn't hear from Cartman, Token didn't hear from Cartman, Kyle and I didn't hear from Cartman. . . "
A girl's hand slapped down on Kenny's parka'd shoulder. Wendy had slipped up to the table unnoticed.
"Remember my last, Kenny," she said warningly. Kenny straightened up, but he just nodded.
Token lit up. "Hey, Wendy! Come on and sit with us. Butters was just leaving."
Butters looked up, his mouth full of tapioca pudding. "I mmff?" he mumbled puzzledly, then swallowed hard. "Oh, yeah," he said, sadly looking at his almost full pudding dish. "I was."
"No, don't get up, Butters," Wendy said, patting him on the back. Butters blushed. "I've got to go talk to Bebe anyway. See you later, Token."
Token looked disappointed. Stan was mildly surprised to discover that he didn't care much either way. In fact, he thought, he wasn't jealous of Token at all, the poor guy.
"Well," Kyle said, "we'd better get over to his house after school anyway. Knowing him, he probably just expects us to show up; he wouldn't even bother to let us know unless we didn't show up, and then he'd be pissed off."
They all agreed that this made sense.
Mrs. Cartman opened the door right away.
"Is Cartman home, Mrs. Cartman?"
"Oh, yes," she said, "he's right upstairs. I'm glad you boys came over. I think my little poopsykins isn't feeling well. He hasn't been downstairs all day."
Kyle laughed. "What," he said, "he hasn't even eaten breakfast? Or lunch?"
Mrs. Cartman looked a bit worried. "Actually, no."
They all looked at each other and raced upstairs, dropping their instruments in the hall and nearly stepping on Fluffy the pig as they ran. "I brought him up some powdered donut pancake surprise," Mrs. Cartman called after them, "but he wouldn't touch a bite!"
Stan slammed Cartman's bedroom door open. "Cartman?" he said, tentatively.
Cartman was lying back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. He didn't look as though he had moved for hours. In fact, thought Stan, he looked as though he hadn't changed his clothes from the previous night. Someone had pulled a white robe on over his good suit. His tie had bled into the robe and into his shirt. He was still damp.
"Cartman?" repeated Kyle.
Cartman blinked, then sat up, then stood very carefully.
"Wow," Stan heard Kyle whisper, "that preacher dude must have really kicked his fat ass."
"Greetings, brethren," said the alien life form that appeared to be inhabiting Cartman's body. Butters ran over to him.
"G-gosh, Eric," Butters said worriedly, "ain't you feelin' well?
"I'm feeling blessed, Butters," Cartman replied. "Blessed."
"Um, yeah," Token said tactfully, "you look blessed."
"Ah, Token," Cartman said, smiling at him. "Blessings in the name of the Lord."
Kyle looked very disturbed by this new, and somehow creepier, version of Cartman.
"Uh, Cartman?" he asked. "Over here? Y'know, me? Kyle?"
"And a blessed day it is, Kyle," Cartman replied.
"What?" Kyle said, thoroughly unnerved now. "No, Cartman. I'm Kyle, you know, Kyle the J-O-O. It's me!" he said, practically shouting in Cartman's face. "I, like, am personally responsible for killing Jesus! I started all the wars in the Middle East!"
Cartman held his arms out to Kyle, puzzled but benign.
"But why should I think poorly of you, Kyle?" he asked. "Are we not both God's children? Are we not People of the Book?"
And that was when Kenny, selflessly and with a complete disregard for his own safety, kicked Cartman square in the nuts.
Cartman dropped like a boulder. "AGGHH!" he screamed. Butters dropped to his knees beside Cartman.
"Wow, Kenny," Stan heard himself say.
"Agh, agh, agh. . . "
"What'd you do that for, Kenny?" Kyle asked. "Not," he added fairly, "that I haven't thought of doing it myself."
"Mmmffpphhfhh," Kenny explained.
"Hate . . . you . . .guys. . . ." came a muffled voice from the floor.
"Wendy told you to do it?" Token said, horrified.
"Mm! Hmmhmhphmhmhm!"
"Knock some sense into his brain? Kenny, Cartman's brains aren't down there!" Stan said.
"Although . . . " Kyle began.
"HATE. . . you guys. . . GODDAMNIT. . . .I'm gonna. . . KILL . . . you—JESUS you—assbangers. . . ."
"Hey fellas?" Butters looked up at Kyle, Stan, Token and Kenny. "I think Cartman's gonna be OK!"
"JesusfuckingassChristblooddrippingmotherfuckerSusanSarandonasswipes," Cartman said faintly.
"Yeah," said Stan, "looks like it."
"Yay, I think," said Kyle. Meanwhile, Kenny and Butters were helping Cartman up and over to the bed. Cartman began shredding the white robe from the neck down.
"Before I kill you," he said, in a frighteningly calm tone—RIP, TEAR—"do you MIND telling me WHY THE FUCK YOU DID THAT?"
There was a pause. Butter broke it.
"Wu-well, Eric," he began to explain, "you were actin', uh, awful funny. . . "
"FUNNY? Goddamnit, depriving the future race of MY gene pool is FUNNY?"
"Kenny," Kyle said softly, "you deserve the thanks of every right-thinking human being for this."
Stan stepped directly in front of Cartman, who looked up at him furiously. "Cartman," he asked, "what's the last thing you remember?"
Cartman frowned. "I was going on that TV show. CRAP!" he exclaimed suddenly. "I missed it!"
"No, you didn't, Cartman," said Kyle. "You did go on that show."
"Hmm," Cartman said, knitting his brows further. "I must have forgotten to get into my pajamas."
"An' you're all sticky," Butters added.
"Don't you remember anything, Cartman?" Stan insisted.
"No," Cartman admitted, "but I do have a huge bump on the back of my head."
"Well," Stan said reluctantly, "you—kinda got saved or something."
"Mmmmphmmmhmh."
"Kenny's right," Kyle said, unable to keep the glee out of his voice. "That preacher guy really kicked your ass."
"Oh," Cartman said. "So. . . .everyone believed I was saved and everything?" he added hopefully.
Kyle and Token looked at each other. "Yeah," they said, almost at the same moment, and sighed.
"Sweeeet. And who," Cartman asked suddenly, "is responsible for having me kicked in the goddam balls?"
"Oh, that was Wendy," Stan said. "She thought you'd been brainwashed, and she told Kenny to do something about it. . . "
"And you've got to admit," Token said, trying not to snicker too loudly," it worked."
"Hmm," Cartman said, looking almost cheerful. "Hmm. Well, remind me to send the bitch an attractive arrangement of cactus and poison sumac. And Kenny, if you ever do that again, I will personally have you delivering Satan 25 pizzas he didn't order." He rose, took off his suit jacket and tie, and began to change his wet shirt. They all averted their eyes. Cartman's head popped up through a fresh T-shirt with Hitler's Love Child on it.
"Gentleman," he said, "I believe we have an act to put together." They followed him back downstairs, heading for the basement and what Stan feared would be an excruciating afternoon. "Mehhmmmm? I'm gonna need a pie with toffee ice cream down hnyah!"
The first business meeting and rehearsal of Faith +1 was underway in Cartman's basement.
"OK," Kyle said, "first, we are not doing anything until I have a chance to draw up some contracts and get them looked over by my father . . ."
"Why, yes, Kyle," said Cartman mildly, looking up from some lyric sheets, "that seems fair."
" . . . who will be reducing his billing per hour by 50 because, after all, I'm his son."
Cartman turned red and opened his mouth as though he were going to say something. Butters hastily handed him a slice of pie.
"Now, I've been looking into this, " Kyle continued, "and there's some fairly boilerplate language we can use for our contracts and other legal documents. That ought to save us a lot of time, and, of course, money. First, there's the matter of percentages. Usually a manager would make anywhere between 10 and 15 percent. But since you didn't mention anything about that, Cartman, and since you seemed to be suggesting that we were all going to be making money on this thing, I'm going to suggest that we merely split the profits six ways, which would make my share approximately 16.66 percent. Naturally, since Stan is my assistant, or maybe just a corporate spy, I'm not sure which.—"
"Hey!" Stan protested.
"No offense, Stan—in any case, if Stan were working for me, usually the band would pay me that 10 or 15 percent and I would pay him, but again, Cartman, since you didn't specify, I'm going to have to assume that Stan is also in for an equal share. Which means," Kyle finished up, "that you have already allocated roughly twice what you needed to on legal, financial, and management fees. At least."
Cartman picked up the dish with the pie on it threateningly.
"I suggest that you don't throw that pie at me, Cartman, because you're going to want to eat it later, and because I am making a point," Kyle said. "You haven't even started rehearsing yet, and you're already making financial mistakes. I, however, am not. Which means," Kyle added, "that where the money is concerned, I strongly recommend that you leave the driving to me."
Wow, Stan thought. Cartman was right. Or maybe Butters was right. Cartman was a total asshole and made racist assumptions about everybody, but somehow he also seemed to be able to pick up on talents people didn't even know they had. Stan certainly didn't know that Kyle could crunch figures like that. He just looked like the same old kid in the green hat.
"Fine," Cartman said, after a long pause. "That's what we're paying you for."
"Yes," Kyle agreed. "Then I'll get to work on the contracts, and I'll be figuring in insurance costs, overhead, union fees, cost of electronic equipment, and, of course, protective gear for Kenny here. That'll all come out of the gross. Before I start, though, I should ask what you want done with your money as it comes in. Token?"
"My parents have a trust fund set up," Token said, a little reluctantly. "I think you should just hand it over to Dad. He knows where it's all going."
"OK," Kyle said, making a note. "But I will have to check that out against the Jackie Coogan Act. There's protective legislation so that parents can't take advantage of their kids if they become rich, famous performers."
Stan hadn't known that, either. Kyle looked sort of like a grownup when he talked this way, only not all geeky like Mr. Broflovski. It was, well, cool.
"What do you want done with your money, Butters?"
Butters looked startled. "Oh, uh—I wasn't thinkin' about the money, " he began.
"That's because last time you let Fatass here spend it all before you ever saw any. That's not going to happen this time, so assuming that there are profits, what do you want me to do with them—just give them to you?"
Butters' eyes went wide. "Well, but, Kyle," he asked, "what would I need money for?"
"Isn't there anything you want, Butters?"
Butters looked a bit shy. "Wu-well, I did used to send money to kids in third world countries back when AWESOME-O got all those movie ideas." Cartman rolled his eyes. "I think I'd kinda like to do something like that—only I kinda have an even better idea now. Can I talk to you about it later?"
"Sure, Butters," Kyle assured him. "So you want most of what you make to go to charity. I think, though," he said thoughtfully, "that I ought to put some of it in an educational trust fund for you, too."
"Boring," Cartman sighed.
"Oh," Kyle said. "I'm so sorry I'm boring you, Cartman. I'm sure you boys want to get back to the artistic side. Well," he said, tapping his papers on the desk, "that's about it. I'll need to be getting on with the contracts now. Good afternoon, Cartman. Come on, Stan," he added, "let's head down to Harbucks for a grandissmo hot chocolate. I'm buying." He put on a pair of shades and strolled up Cartman's stairs. Stan followed, fascinated.
"OK, " Kyle said, in Mr. Broflovski's office, several days later, "I think we're done here."
Stan looked up from the pile of papers Kyle was having him check and smiled. Despite Kyle forcing him to look through figures and read through legal documents, he had been having fun. It was nice not having to listen to Cartman whine. It was nice not having to head Kenny off from eating the "mints." Except for Mr. Broflovski checking on them once in awhile and telling them when it was time to go home for dinner, they weren't interrupted at all. Why had it been such a long time since he'd spent time just with Kyle?
"Whew," Kyle continued, "that took forever. Thank God I'm bar mitzvah now. Otherwise Mom would kill me for spending so much time on this. Poor Ike," he added cheerfully, "he's next. He won't know what hit him."
"So what now?" Stan asked.
"Like I said, we're done," said Kyle, stretching and yawning, "so we really ought to check in and see how the band is coming along. And, of course, have them sign all these papers." Stan noticed that when Kyle stretched like that, he could see just a tiny peek of the V of Kyle's undershirt. Man, he must be burned out. "Come on, Stan," Kyle added, "can't put it off anymore. We've gotta go listen to Faith +1."
"I left my earmuffs at home," Stan complained, as they left the office with the contracts and walked over to Cartman's house.
They went straight down to the basement.
"Finally," Cartman griped. Stan noticed he was wearing the huge flashy cross he'd worn when he led Faith +1.
"Hello to you too, wide load," said Kyle. "We've got the contracts ready. Got anything worthwhile to show us?"
"Hell yeah!" said Cartman. "What, you think we were just sitting around while you two butt buddies were drawing up faggy little contracts? We got a lot done. Have a seat."
Kyle and Stan sat down. Butters was already seated at the drum set.
"Hiya fellas!' he chirped. "B-boy, we sure m-missed you but we did come up with a whole lotta songs."
Token snorted. He was carrying his bass and Stan noticed that he also had a harmonica around his neck. Cartman followed his glance.
"Oh, yes, Stan," Cartman said, "We added that. I thought it was a nice touch."
Token rolled his eyes.
"Well," Cartman continued, "we've had to write some new songs, naturally. And I thought we should start by making this easy on ourselves, so we went through our parents' music collections."
Kyle cleared his throat. "I'd like to remind you, Cartman," he said, "that unless the song you're recording was written before 1923, and unless your arrangement is original, you are in for deep, deep shit. Don't even bother lying and saying that it was just an accident. George Harrison tried that with 'My Sweet Lord' and look how far it got him."
"Yeah, yeah, I know, Jewy McHebrew," Cartman said exasperatedly, "so we had to tell Butters that we could not rip off 'Love Will Keep Us Together.' Which, as far as I'm concerned, was a big relief."
"Aw," said Butters.
"But we did figure we could use some songs for inspiration, especially if they were really old. See, I brought down some stuff of Great-Grandmehm's."
Cartman had set up a sound system linked in to Token's bass, Butters' drum set, and his own keyboards. Now Stan saw that he had a turntable and a CD player linked up to it too. Cartman flipped on a thick old 45 RPM record. It was really scratchy.
I've got nipples on my titties
Big as the end of my thumb,
I've got somethin' 'tween my legs'll
Make a dead man. . .
Kenny had stopped checking effects and light charts in the corner and was staring at the turntable with eyes like plates. Cartman pulled the needle off with a rip.
"Goddamnit," Cartman said, frowning, "wrong one. Oh, well." He shrugged. "Token's parents had some good stuff, too."
"There's one I want to use," Token insisted, "and I don't want to change it at all. Can we do that, Kyle?"
"Well, yeah," said Kyle, "if you pay the original copyright owner and clear it with him or her, it oughta be fine."
"Yeah, I hate to piss away the money," Cartman said, "but Token here is really convinced that it'll be good, and what the hell—the audience won't care; they'll never even know it isn't ours. You think any of them ever listen to Marvin Gaye?"
They all agreed that most modern Christian rock audiences weren't all that familiar with Motown.
"And," added Cartman, "we thought we'd re-record some of the tracks we did on our first album. Just one or two. The concert audience is going to expect us to do some of our old songs anyhow, so we'll probably play 'Jesus Baby' and 'I Wanna Get Down On My Knees and Start Pleasin' Jesus.' Token's picked up the harmonica and I really like it on this one. You didn't hear our first album?"
Kyle and Stan shook their heads numbly. Cartman rolled his eyes.
"Wow, you guys are such great friends, I'm really really, impressed with your supportiveness." He sat down at the keyboards. "OK then. You boys ready?" Token picked up his bass and got his mouth on the harmonica. "This one's kind of a bluesy number."
They began to play. Butters and Token began a rhythm-and-blues backup.
Christ again, sang Cartman,
Token played a fa-FWEET on the harmonica.
Oh, do it againnnnn; (fa-fa-fa-FWEET)
Roll me OVAH, honey, (fa-fa-fa-FWEET)
You fisher of men. (fa-fa-FWEET)
Ya know that I'm cravin', (fa-fa-fa-FWEET)
A little soul-savin', (fa-fa-fa-FWEET)
I'm sayin' I need ya, (fa-fa-fa-FWEET)
Lemme Nicene Creed ya, (fa-fa-fa-FWEET)
Your love is streamin', (fa-fa-fa-FWEET)
An you've got me screamin' (fa-fa-fa-FWEET)
Christ again, (fa-fa-FWEET).
(Oh do it again, Jesus!)
Token began a harmonica solo.
"Oh, my God," Kyle cried, cutting them off, "that is such crap."
"Thought you'd like it, Kyle. Here's another one we did. It's sort of sweeter, more romantic."
"Yeah," enthused Butters, "it's my favorite."
Stan and Kyle tried to prepare themselves. This one was a swoopy, ballady number.
A Night With the Lord
Is like no other night in the world.
A Night with the Lord
Is moonlight and magic and ponies;
The clouds part before us,
On our magic carpet ride,
Singing the Hallelujah Chorus,
With Him by my side.
Oh, darlin' Jesus, with you I'm forever young,
Especially
When you do that thing with your tongue (whispered)-- just like that
And no matter how old I get
I never will forget
My mystical, magical, miracle,
Night with the Lord.
Stan felt decidedly queasy. From somewhere that seemed very far away he thought he heard Kyle saying, "You're telling me you have more like that, Cartman?" and Cartman's voice replying smugly, "Yep." Kenny came and sat down next to Stan and encouraged him to put his head between his knees. He was also, Stan noticed vaguely, carrying a bucket.
"OK," Kyle said, sounding shaken, "I-I think that's enough for Stan and me to understand where this is going."
"You don't have to like it, you know, Kyle," Cartman said casually.
Kyle turned around and looked at him. "What?"
"You heard what I said," Cartman repeated. "You do not have to like this. You can think it's total crap if you want. The question is, will it sell? And it WILL sell, too. So don't bother faking it in front of me. Just make sure not to act like that in front of a producer or a paying audience." Kyle thought this over.
"That seems fair enough," he agreed. "You guys are the ones who'll have to have the squeaky clean lifestyle anyway. Cartman, you'd better practice cleaning up that potty mouth or I'll have to ask Mom if she has any extra V-chips lying around."
"Fuckin' ungrateful bitch," Cartman muttered, but he did keep it under his breath.
Mrs. Cartman's voice floated downstairs.
"Sweetie darling, some mail came for you today," she sang.
"All right, Mehm, for Christ's sake."
"Watch the profanity," Kyle warned Cartman as he puffed upstairs. Stan could hear choking noises. Kyle began handing out contracts to everyone else.
"OK, before you sign these," he said, "you should read them really, really, carefully. If you want to take it home, show it to your parents first, that's fine, and call me or my Dad if you've got any questions." Token nodded and slipped his into his backpack.
"That's OK, Kyle," said Butters, "I trust ya," and began to sign.
"No, don't, Butters," Kyle said. "You should always read everything before you sign it. And besides, there's a part in there I think you'll like—about where you want the money to go. Check it over and tell me if you have any suggestions."
"Wu-well, OK," said Butters.
Cartman pounded down the stairs. He was waving a letter over his head and had a large manila envelope in his hand.
"You guys! You guys! Guess what? It's our old label, Faith Records! They want us to cut the album next week! They're gonna help line up some concert gigs, they've got marketing ideas; it's totally awesome! They say there's nothing like a Christian pop star who gets unsaved and then gets saved again. This kicks ass!" Cartman raced around the basement throwing sheet music in the air.
"That's nice," said Kyle, "so you can hand over that info and the contract and let me red-line it for you."
Cartman stopped racing around. He sighed. "Leave it to you to be a total buzz-kill, Kyle." He tossed Kyle the envelope from Faith Records and noticed the large stack of paper Kyle had put out for him to sign. He glanced at it briefly and began signing and initialing the bottom of every page. Kyle looked through the letter.
"Yeah, Cartman's right," Kyle said, "it does say they want you to record next week in Hollywood. And they've got a few gigs lined up—and a CD release party."
"Kick-ASS," said Cartman, who had finished signing everything. A piece of paper fluttered down from the envelope.
"What's this?" Stan asked. He leaned down and picked up the paper, which looked as though it had been inserted separately. "Look. It's a flyer." He read:
Rally at Focus on the American Family Institute
Dr. Fred Robson
With Special Guests, Faith+1
Come out and show your support
For preserving the American Family
Truth in science teaching
Clean entertainment on the air
Bring a dollar for the box
Kyle read the flyer over his shoulder. "Oh, boy," he said. "Here we go. "
Stan was confused, and the other boys looked equally confused. "It's all the stuff we saw before—you know, on the field trip? Like, 'truth in science teaching' means you can't teach anything that looks as though it might contradict the Bible. And 'preserving the American Family'—I bet that's about getting the laws changed so gays can't marry." Kyle looked very, very uncomfortable. "I don't know, you guys," he said, "maybe this isn't so great after all. Maybe we shouldn't do this."
"WHAT?" screamed Cartman. "After all that work? Are you out of your mind? Of course we're going through with it, Kyle. Ten million dollars! Or a lotta money, anyway!"
Kyle shook his head. "I just don't know. I have a very bad feeling about this. Maybe this is what Wendy meant when she said it would get political. I'm going home."
"Yeah, me too," said Token.
"Oh, wu-wow, fellas, is that the time? Cr-cracker crumbs," stammered Butters, "I gotta get home before supper or I'll get grounded for sure."
They all left the basement, except, of course, for Cartman, and Kenny, who evidently was staying for dinner. As he walked up the stairs, Stan caught a last glimpse of Kenny. He was wearing a pair of earphones and had put on the record that had belonged to Cartman's great-Grandmehm. His eyes were closed and he was giggling madly.
Author's note: "Jewy McHebrew" has been used by David Rakoff; as far as I know, he may have invented it. The song Cartman accidentally puts on is the infamous "Shave 'Em Dry" (the unexpurgated version) sung by Lucille Bogan in the 1930s; the lyrics only get worse from there, so don't bother looking it up if you're easily offended.
If you want to know how the songs sound, "Christ Again" sounds like any old-fashioned blues numbers with a harmonica. "A Night with the Lord" sounds like something between "I Can Show You the World," and "Swiss Colony Beef Log."