Disclaimer: South Park and its characters belong to Matt Stone and Trey Parker.
I can't decide whose fanpic of Butters wearing a Hello Kitty hoodie is cuter—oneirogenic's or Seaouryou's—but they most definitely deserve a tribute. You can see 'em on deviantart.
And "we consider anything without room service to be camping"—that may be an old joke, but I got it from Shloma Rosenberg. Hugs to you and mazel tov, sweetie.
Chapter Five: A Really Big Night With The Lord
Token was looking out the windows of the car. He looked disappointed.
"This is Hollywood? It's not as glamorous as they show it on TV."
Kyle looked up from a printout from Mapquest he'd been consulting. "That's because it isn't really Hollywood—we're in the San Fernando Valley. Apparently, that's where they have a lot of recording studios."
"Yeah," agreed Butters, "I went to Hollywood an' we went to the Chinese Theater and everythin' but I never been here before." They drove by another nondescript building and Butters pointed. "Oh, looky, fellas—Man Meat Studios. Ya think they do cookin' shows or somethin'?"
"Umm, Butters," Kyle headed off this question before it derailed, "how are Cartman's lessons coming along?" Butters smiled.
"I think Eric's makin' real good progress. Come on, Eric, let's show 'em what you can do. Token, couldja just kinda… ."
Token kicked Cartman sharply in the shin.
"OW! Cr. . . istmas," Cartman finished lamely and started rubbing his shin.
"Dude," Kyle said, "I am totally impressed. You're like a human V-chip. How did you do that?"
Butters wriggled on the seat and dug his hands deep into the pockets of his Hello Kitty hoodie. "Well, it. . . it wasn't much, Kyle, I just gave Eric some, you know, other words he could use. An' I made him a tape a me talkin' so he'd know what words ta use when." Stan briefly flashed on the horror of listening to hours and hours of Butters on tape. "So ya see, Token," Butters finished up, "you won't ever hafta worry about Eric here flyin' off the handle ever again. 'Cause he knows better and I been trainin' him."
The car pulled into a parking lot beside a building with a sign that read "Sooper-Dooper Recording." The boys hopped out of the car and entered the building, which wasn't much more impressive-looking than Man Meat Studios. A plump, balding man with a sad little ponytail in back greeted them at the door.
"Hey, guys, you must be Faith +1. Come on back." They followed him down a grey hallway with nondescript furniture. The only way anyone would have known that it was a recording studio were the pictures of recording artists on the walls and a few plaques.
"We're in Studio D. Which one of you is Mr. Broflovski?"
"That's me," Kyle said.
"OK, we checked over the contract and we looked at the riders. We tried to get everything you asked for; that would be sugar-free soda for you, a supply of Snacky Smores, a break room with a Game Cube setup, and we'll be asking you guys what you want for lunch around 11:30 every day. We can get you Colonel's, pizza, City Wok—"
Stan interrupted him. "Dude, you have City Wok here?"
"We've got the original City Wok here. It's a chain; I thought everybody knew that. Just one thing: we did our best, but we couldn't get any Cheesy Poofs. They don't sell them in California: something about the toxin levels."
"Ah, Goddamnit!" exclaimed Cartman. He slammed his hands on his mouth as they all turned to glare at him. The bald guy shrugged.
"Dude, we really don't care. I don't care if you're a Christian band or what. I'm a Buddhist, Larry in there (a man waved from behind the glass booth) is into Kabbalah, Emily does Asatru, and Brandon, the kid who'll be doing your lunch runs, he just watches a lot of Penn and Teller. Go ahead. Curse all you want to. Knock yourselves out."
Cartman sighed with relief. "Sweeeet."
Kyle frowned. "I wouldn't get too used to it, fat-ass. It's like a habit. You'll slip up if you don't practice."
"EY, Jew, this would be a lot fucking easier if you didn't keep calling me fat-ass, all right?"
Kyle started turning red. "Fat-ass isn't a curse word, fat-ass; it's just a descriptor!"
"Well, so is Jew, you---Jew!"
"Cartman's right."
Both Cartman and Kyle turned to stare at Stan. Why the hell did I have to say that? he thought. But he went on. "Dude, he does have a point there. I mean, so he has a mouth like a septic tank; it isn't fair to goad him when he can't even use it."
Cartman smirked at Kyle. "Hehhehhehheh, Stan took my side, and you got busted!" he said. "Why don't you go cry in the bathroom, little Jew boy, your boyfriend doesn't love you anymore!"
Kyle stared back, first at Cartman, then at Stan. "I hate you so much, Cartman," he said, and walked slowly back down the hall.
Token shook his head. "Man, Cartman," he said, "how do you manage to be so offensive without any profanity at all?"
Cartman merely sneered. "Amateurs," he said coldly, and walked into the studio. Token followed him in. Butters stayed behind.
"Uh, I, uh, I g-gotta go now, Stan—you gonna be all right?"
"Yeah, Butters, no big deal, you go on," said Stan. Butters disappeared into the recording studio, looking worried. Stan felt an arm around him. "Yeah? What, Kenny?"
Kenny handed him a can of sugar-free soda, turned, and went into the break room. Stan took a deep breath and walked towards the men's room, soda in hand.
Kyle was leaning his head against the wall. He didn't wait for Stan to speak. "I hate that asshole so fucking much," he said. Whatever Cartman had said, he certainly didn't look as though he had been crying, just very, very tired. Stan handed him the soda. "Thanks."
Stan really felt awkward now. "Umm, Kyle . . ." he began.
"Dude," said Kyle, and smiled, and Stan knew it was cool again. They walked back down to the break room to play video games with Kenny, who kicked their asses.
"A motel? You got us reservations at a cheap motel? In Hollywood?"
They were standing in front of an admittedly cruddy-looking motel. They had been dropped off at the end of the day with their luggage. They'd left the instruments locked up at the recording studios and it now looked as though that was a good thing.
"Well, as Token said, Hollywood isn't all that glamorous," Kyle said smoothly. "Parts of it, anyway."
Cartman was livid; probably deep in the throes of Cheesy Poof withdrawal, Stan thought. "I thought your people considered anything without room service to be camping!" he fumed.
"Uh huh," Kyle agreed, " but as you know, we're also incredibly cheap. So which is it, Cartman? Which stereotype do you want to go with?"
While Cartman worked this out, Token was also visibly uncomfortable. "The neighborhood seems kinda –unpleasant," he said, finally.
"I think the neighborhood is neato!" said Butters. "Didja see all those video stores? An' that place with the Halloween costumes? And there's all those ladies standin' around wantin' to say howdy neighbor—just like in South Park!" He scurried ahead into the check in area.
"Oh, man, it smells like pee," Cartman complained several minutes later. "This sucks balls."
"Uh," said Token. Stan noticed that he was looking at the wall, which seemed to be banging loudly. And yelling.
"Come on, guys," Kyle said. "Our rooms are down further this way." He led them down the hall. "OK," he said, throwing Butters a key, "you're in 106 with Token. Stan, you're with me. Kenny, I hate to do this to you, but you're with Cartman. We've got about 45 minutes to unpack and clean up, and then the studio is sending a car to take us to dinner, so don't," he finished, turning to Kenny, "get all caught up in the pay channels."
It didn't seem long until they were being picked up again. "So," said the driver, "where to?"
"Just someplace Hollywood-y."
"You mean like Musso and Frank's or something like that?"
"No," said Kyle. "We're just kids from out of town. Take us someplace regular where we can have dinner."
They finally wound up at an Italian restaurant near the Hollywood Freeway. It wasn't fancy and the people in it didn't look particularly Hollywood-y, but at least it was reasonably cheap and there wasn't anything too weird on the menu.
"Hey," said Stan, "isn't that guy the one we met in Colorado? The one who said he was Goofy?"
Kyle squinted over at the table next to them. It was pretty dark.
"Yeah, I think so."
"Let's wave at him and see what he does."
But the greyhaired guy was looking at them too and leaned over so he could talk to them. "Are you somebody I'm supposed to know?" he said worriedly.
"Don't think so, dude," said Stan. "We only met you once."
"Oh, hey, right!" he said happily. "I recognize the fat kid—I'd know you anywhere. We met at that place in Colorado, right?"
Cartman glowered at him. "EY! I am NOT FAT, I am BIG-BONED."
"Yeah, well, I was big-boned too, once, but here's a tip: if you just order the marinara sauce in a bowl and don't eat anything else, you quit being so big-boned. Also, I recommend wearing a lot of black. Plus turtleneck sweaters."
Cartman gave him a look that said, "Get AIDS and die, you aging hippie freak," but the guy was poking another man sitting at the table with him. "Hey, Desmond," he was saying, "I met these kids in Colorado. Say hi."
"Hullo, children." This new man had a British accent and didn't seem all that excited about talking to a table full of thirteen year old boys. The lady with them, however, looked as though she was happy to meet anybody.
"Hey there! I'm Victoria, and this is Desmond. You're pretty young to be in a restaurant all by yourselves. Are you going to be ok?"
Kenny was sort of goggling at her through the opening of his hood. Stan didn't understand why. She was pretty, with browny-blondy hair, but she had to be really, really old. Fifty, at least. She did have a very nice smile, though. Kenny actually took off his hood, walked over to the other table, and slid in next to her.
"When this guy dies," he said clearly, "I want to marry you and sit underneath a big Christmas tree with you forever and ever."
The lady hugged him. "Aren't you a little cutie," she said. Kenny pressed up against her flowered print dress and closed his eyes tight. What a perv, thought Stan, and she thinks he's just a cute, harmless little kid. I hope he doesn't die from sheer perverted pleasure or because the lady's husband kills him.
The cheerful guy was talking to them again. "So what are you doing in California? Seeing Disneyland?"
"We're making a recording, actually," said Cartman, and went on hogging the garlic bread. This caught the British guy's attention.
"Making a recording, eh? I've done that. I had a hit when I was just a bit older than you lads are. It was called, 'You Really Send Me.' Ever hear of it? 1964."
"Wow, 1964," said Cartman, "and you're still alive and they let you out of the home, too. Do you have to wear adult diapers?" This annoyed the British guy.
"Listen, chubby, I went to a British public school. Where I come from we use fat little arseholes as toast racks, so don't screw with me." Stan thought he'd better change the subject.
"So what happened? With your hit record, I mean?"
The British guy shrugged. "Oh, well, it was like any other hit. Some of us British Invaders stayed big, some of us didn't. I saved my money, married Victoria here, bought several ukuleles and accordions and a nice little house, and lived modestly ever after. Not that there wasn't a lot of exciting sex and rock n' roll on the way," he said reminiscently.
Kyle cut in. "You see, guys—this is why it's a good idea to pay attention to that money. You don't stay famous forever."
"Indeed not. Fame can be very difficult to predict." Avery thin lady with black spiky hair wandered by. "Hullo, Mary. Mary writes for some music magazine for young persons . . .oh, bugger bugger bugger, I can never remember what it's called. Mary, these boys are a new band from –where did you say it was?"
"Colorado."
"Oh, aren't you precious? Oh, look, Victoria, aren't they just precious." She sat down next to Butters. "Oh, look at the Hello Kitty hoodie. I could just eat you up, sweetie!" she said, hugging Butters until his eyes bugged out.
"Oh, uh, no ma'am, p-please. An'-an p-please don't make me put on a bear costume, either."
"And what kind of music do you play?" she went on.
Token finally spoke up. "Christian rock. But we do some other stuff, too," he added, seeing the lady's disappointed expression.
"Well, you might make an interesting story. I'll tell you what—I have to be in Denver next week anyway, so if you don't live too far away, I'd like to interview you." She took their contact information from Kyle. The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, except that Kenny had to be dragged away from Victoria.
It was nice and warm, thought Stan sleepily. He hoped it wasn't time to get up yet. It was nice and warm and comfy, only . . . somewhere far off, there was a slight smell of pee and carpet cleaner. But somewhere much closer there was a nice, familiar smell. Hmmm.
Why was his face scratchy?
Why was he staring directly into a sunset?
A little more consciousness filtered in. That was—Kyle's hair. He was sleeping cuddled up with Kyle, one arm and one leg thrown over him.
It's ok, Stan thought. No big deal. Pajamas, we're wearing pajamas. And he's still asleep . . .
He slid back from Kyle very, very carefully, so he wouldn't wake him, and made for the bathroom. And threw up. And flushed the toilet. And began to brush his teeth.
OK, let's start with what this wasn't. It wasn't morning sickness, because he was a boy. It wasn't super-AIDS. Maybe it was something he ate at the restaurant. Food poisoning. That was it.
He ran a washcloth under the cold tap, wrung it out, and pressed it against the back of his neck, just the way his mother did when she tried to get him to calm down. There was a knock on the door.
"Stan? You ok?"
"Uh, yeah."
"Can I use the bathroom now?"
"Uh, yeah, just a second . . .." Shower later, he thought, and opened the door. Kyle was standing there in hideous mustard colored pajamas. Kyle's hair in the morning was the weirdest, most-screwed up looking thing he'd ever seen. He'd seen it before a million times, on sleepovers, on camping trips, and it still was the weirdest thing he'd ever seen, and seeing it made him feel really happy.
"Uh . . .. Good morning, Kyle."
"Good morning to you too, Stan." They stood there for a few seconds.
"Stan, I really have gotta pee now. Can you let me in the bathroom?"
"Oh. Sure. Sorry." He let Kyle into the bathroom and sat down on the bed. There was a knock on the outside door. Butters was standing outside.
"Mornin', Stan, you an' Kyle ready for b-breakfast? 'Cause I'm takin' a shower right after Token's done an' I guess we gu-gotta go to the studio soon."
Butters was probably the only thirteen year old boy in the United States who wore blue footie pajamas, Stan thought numbly. With a little fluffy cotton tail, yet. Where did his Mom get something like that?
"You like my pajamas?" Butters said. "Mom makes 'em special. She's the greatest Mom in the world. Hu-hey, looks like Kyle's done with the shower. Maybe Token's done, too. See ya later!" Butters disappeared and Stan turned to find Kyle standing there wearing a towel.
He practically fled into the bathroom.
The rest of the album had been cut without anything remarkable happening, except that Faith +1's music made Stan throw up. A lot. He tried not to listen, but he kept throwing up just the same. It was a relief to wrap up the album and go home.
They had been getting ready for this concert at the Focus on the American Family Institute for a month now. The CDs were going on sale today, and there would be a lot of them available at the concert. It would be taped and broadcast later over that huge network of radio stations. KPOX was there, with at least three cameras. The lady from Hollywood actually had come out for an afternoon and interviewed Cartman, Token, and Butters—the magazine was going to hit the stands sometime next week.
Stan stood next to Kyle, wearing his coat and hat over his best suit.
"You think anyone is really gonna come? I mean, it's freezing," Kyle said incredulously.
It was freezing, but despite that, people were lined up and had been waiting since the previous night. Between Robson's church in Colorado Falls, the Institute, Faith Records, KPOX, and their own publicists—"Provolone Entertainment—serving YOU up a slice of the Truth every day"—the word had clearly gotten out well. They'd checked on the guys
backstage—they seemed ok, and Kenny had looked up from the box of pyrotechnics he was setting up and given them a thumbs-up.
The house was open now, and Stan was still stunned at how big the crowd was. The entire outdoor arena was filled with jostling but polite people. I hope this concert doesn't suck, Stan thought. Everyone was eagerly waiting for the concert to begin. At last, out came Fred Robson, the evangelist who had "saved" Cartman. His hair was even taller and more impressive than it usually was.
"PRAISE HIM!" Robson yelled. The crowd yelled back. "Now, I know you're all eager to hear Faith +1—" some people in the crowd whistled and cheered "—but first I want to talk to you about a threat to our faith, a threat to America."
Stan couldn't believe it. Robson was taking over!
"I feel moved by the Spirit to take this opportunity—"
No, you don't, Stan thought angrily, you're a big ham! You're jealous of the attention!
"Wow, what a big, fat ham," whispered Kyle. "I never thought I'd say this, but worse than Cartman."
Robson started going on and on about Clean Entertainment and Keep Harry Potter Out Of Our Libraries and Getting Farting Canadians Off The Airwaves, but the crowd wasn't with him. They weren't being mean, but they were impatient. Robson could sense this and it was obviously pissing him off. The more the crowd blew him off, the more he talked, and the more he talked, the angrier he got. He tried to take it to Cleaning Up What's Taught in Our Schools, but by then even he could tell that no one was listening to him. He gave up.
"And now," he said, "the moment you've been waiting for—the long awaited return of Faith +1!"
Lights flooded the stage.
"Y'know Jesus," Stan heard Cartman saying over the music, "I've been thinking a lot about you lately, and well, that's why I decided to write this song."
I luuuuve you, Jesus,
I want you to walk with me . . ..
Some girl went "EEEEEEEEE!" right in Stan's ear. Kyle pulled him away from her and a bit closer to him.
"Are you OK, Stan?"
I take good care of ya, baby,
Call you my baby, baby. . .
No, Stan was not OK. Stan felt really nauseated right now, and Kyle seemed to know it. "Dude," he heard Kyle saying, "whatever you do, don't barf on a paying audience."
In order to distract himself, Stan looked at the stage. He couldn't decide whether he liked the band's costumes or hated them. Token's purple jacket, with razor sharp lapels and even a little glitter, looked awesome on him, but the same costume in blue looked downright silly on Butters. As for Cartman, he was sticking to the same kind of suede jacket he'd worn before, but he seemed to have taken the Hollywood guy's advice about wearing black turtlenecks. Stan could have told him that nothing was going to disguise that massive set of double chins, but why bother?
The band played a few more numbers ("Whenever I see Jesus up on that cross, I can't help but think that he looks kinda hot," sang Cartman, to the surreal counterpoint of squeeing girls) and then Robson came out again.
"Brothers and sisters," he began, "what a terrific band! I want to congratulate them! C'mere, Eric!"
He actually succeeded in pulling Cartman away from his keyboards—Robson must be strong—and from the panicked expression on Cartman's face, he was feeling it, too. Robson had his arm around his shoulders now, and was shaking him really, really hard.
"This young man was SAVED in my church! SAVED on my show! SAVED!"
And with every "SAVED!" he gave Cartman another hard shake. It almost looked as though he was whapping Cartman upside the head. And maybe he was, because Cartman's eyes rolled up inside his head and he began to wobble slightly.
"Oh, no," muttered Kyle. "Not again."
With his arm around Cartman and Cartman smiling sweetly and stupidly next to him, Robson could now talk as long as he wanted to—and he did. He went right for the main topic, which was dissolving every false marriage in Colorado and in the US and keeping the demonic homosexual agenda out of our kids' schools. Someone in the crowd near them said, "Jesuth Chrith." Mr. Slave? Mr. Slave was here?
Now Kyle looked as though he wanted to throw up. "Oh, Stan," he said under his breath, "we really shouldn't have done this."
"Not our fault, dude," said Stan.
"But Stan, " Kyle said, "this is—"
But Kyle never got to finish what he was going to say, because Robson had talked too long, and the big pyrotechnic effect that was supposed to end the concert went off.
POOOOOOOOOOM! A huge mushroom cloud of smoke, glitter, fire, and stars blew up center stage, and in the middle of it, traveling at about sixty miles per hour, was Kenny McCormick.
The crowd closest to the band was blown back about fifteen feet. Butters dodged behind his drum set; Token leapt to the left. Robson and Cartman were knocked onto their backs. Cartman sat up, shook his head, and glared at Robson.
The sound system was knocked out, and the screaming and wailing made it impossible to hear anything, but Stan knew what Cartman was saying to Robson anyway.
"EY! This is my show, asshole!"
Stan and Kyle ran to look down at the huge hole blown in the stage, and then up at the rafters, 100 feet in the air.
"Oh, my God," began Stan, "we—"
"Didn't kill Kenny," finished Kyle, as the beam Kenny was hanging onto somehow was slowly lowered to the stage. "That's why we spent so much on protective equipment. I say it was worth it. You ok, Kenny?"
"Mmmph," Kenny mumbled faintly. They pulled the smoking remains of padding and burn-proof material off him and saw, to their astonishment, that he was fine, except for some nasty bruises. They each put an arm around him and supported him backstage.
Backstage was a shambles. Everyone in the band was covered in dust and soot, and there was a lot of coughing. No one in the audience had been badly hurt, thank goodness—that wasn't the kind of publicity they needed.
No one said anything.
"Wu-well, fellas," Butters said finally, "that was a heckuva show, huh?"
All at once, seemingly from nowhere, Wendy Testaburger was standing in front of them with Mr. Slave.
"I knew it!' she was screaming. "I knew this would happen!"
"Look, Wendy," Kyle began, "accidents happen to Kenny all the –"
"I'm not talking about Kenny! I'm talking about Robson! I told you it would get political! I told you it would get ugly! But you wouldn't listen to me! Do you have any idea how upset Mr. Slave is?"
"Jesuth Christh," Mr. Slave sobbed.
"Wendy," Stan said, "since when is Mr. Slave so important to you?"
Wendy glared. "Mr. Slave is my friend," she snapped. "He was my friend when no one else would be my friend, and I was at his wedding, and someone's trying to break up his marriage, and you're damn right he's important to me! And so are you and Kyle!"
"Huh?" Stan said.
"You are so stupid," she fumed. "I'm not even going to start with you. I'm just really surprised at you two, that's all, and I'm really disappointed."
"Hey!" said Kyle defensively. "What about Cartman? It's his band! It's his idea! Why aren't you yelling at him?"
"Yeah," said Cartman, who had been uncharacteristically quiet all this time, "why aren't you yelling at me?"
Wendy gave him a long, unreadable look. He looked back at her, equally unreadable.
"Because you're hopeless," she said finally. "And Butters—well, you do whatever anyone tells you to do. You probably don't get any of this, do you?"
"I get that you-you're really upset," he stammered. "I'm su-sorry, Wendy, whatever I did."
"That's what I mean," she said, and sighed. "But Stan, you and Kyle, and Token, too—I expect more from you. Come on, Mr. Slave," she said, "let's go find Al. We'll make sure everything turns out OK. I mean," she said firmly, "I will not sleep until everything is OK, if necessary. " She took him by the hand and they both started to leave, but she suddenly turned back. "Oh, and Token?" she added.
"Yes?"
"Wendy breaks up with you."