Chapter ; Christophe "Ze Mole"

Disclaimer 1 ; I don't own South Park. If I did, Ze Mole would be a main character.

Disclaimer 2 ; I own the crud in this chapter, so please don't steal it.

Author's Note ; I am so intensely sorry for the overload of Mole/Christophe in all my stories. I'm sure plenty of people are getting sick of it. There's a story in the makes without him in it - believe it or not - so no fears! Until then, here is a Christophe POV story... without fluff. Next chapter preview : Butters!

Reviews are encouraged and appreciated.

The following events take place between 9:00a.m. and 9:52a.m. on June 6th......

We arrive on the scene five minutes before the Stotch family. By then, a small mountain of cigarette butts have made their home at the base of my combat boots, smouldering in their unfinished agony. I wasn't the type to finish a whole cigarette. I found they became tasteless and bland after the midway point, so I tossed them. None of the other kids in South Park smoked like I did, so I couldn't really hand them off to someone else. It was my job to snuff out their pathetic, tobacco filled, cylindrical lives. So I did, but only after enjoying half a pack of smokes, standing in the middle of a campsite clearing, wind rustling through my thick brown hair.

Cartman had already pulled me around town, bringing me to Butters' favorite places, finding bits of evidence and gathering intelligence on the area surrounding the campsite. Being paid by the hour, I simply followed him in a wake of smoke, inputting my professional opinion when needed, puffing silently on a cigarette when not. The entire adventure had taken us little over an hour and a half, walking out to this desolate location included. Despite himself, Cartman could be dedicated when he needed to be. I wondered, distinctly, how much he was making with this entirely-too-simple of a job. It didn't involve death, so I didn't quite care, one way or another, as long as I was paid at the end.

A van pulled up to the site, and Mr. And Mrs. Stotch got out, pale from worry. Rolling the cigarette over my tongue, I tuck it into the corner of my lip as I stomp out the smoking butts beneath the sole of my combat boot. Stepping forward, I swing my shovel down from my shoulder, using it to lean on as the parents come closer. I say nothing as Cartman distracts them with meaningless questions about smores.

Then they're looking expectantly at me, their eyes aglow with rekindled hope and yearning. Twirling the shovel beneath my hands, digging a rut into the earth, I look to Cartman, then realize what they're waiting for. "Ze Mole," I answer, waving my hand with a lazy flourish.

"P.I Cartman says you can find our son," the father says pleadingly, as the mother's eyes dropped fat, wet tears down her skinny face.

"Oui," I answer, shrugging. "Eets simple."

"Oh, thank you so much," he says, his gratitude thick in the air.

Disgusting.

"Now, I'm going to find clues at the campsite," Cartman announces, catching attention once more. "Mole will go into the surrounding brush and look for signs of your son."

Sighing deeply, I shoulder my shovel once more, spitting out the tail end of the cigarette and stepping on it as I pass. "Zen I will be back," I say gruffly, pushing past Cartman. "If I find anytzhing, I'll make a sound like a dying giraffe." A cynical grin spreads across my lips.

Cartman disregards my comment, opting instead to start his inspection for smores. If he ever thought of things different from food, I didn't know about it. I doubted if anyone knew about it.

Swinging the shovel down, I hacked into the first layer of underbrush, making my way into the wooded area surrounding the campsite. Eyes aimed at the ground, I fumbled for my pack, slipping a slender stick between my pressed lips. Lighting it with a match, I shook it out and took a long drag. It wasn't particularly hard to find the trail of clumsy Butters. Broken branches, a trampled path between the trees, and broken branches led me on a winding path through the surrounding forest. Tracking the boy proved easier than tracking a wounded Soviet through the Siberian Tundra.

Birds screeched from the canopy, their wings rustling as they took flight to escaped my presence. A squirrel, suddenly alerted to my trudging, took it upon himself to follow me through the branches, chattering angrily as he shook branches down on my head. I could only take so much of the abuse. Everyone had a breaking point - mine just seemed to involve squirrels. Stopping suddenly beneath a thick oak tree, I cocked the shovel back, swinging it with all my might into the base of the tree.

"Get ze fuck away," I warn the squirrel, who chatters back angrier than before. I wonder what would happen if he attacked me, but I choose to instead blow smoke up at the creature. "Beetch." Perhaps not the most mature comeback. Especially to a squirrel.

I resume my tracking, though the squirrel still follows. As I stop to inspect a broken branch, the squirrel tosses a nut at me, hitting the ground by my feet. Scooping it up, I straighten, look for the source of the constant 'chit-chit-chit', pull back, aim, and fire. I hear a surprised squeak as the squirrel careens over the branch, landing on the ground several feet below, completely dazed.

"Fucking beetch," I mutter darkly, content that I fought the squirrel and won. By the time I turned back to my trail, the squirrel had scampered away, probably warning the woodland creatures of my violent attack. Or maybe he was going back to his home to never come out again, having been bested by The Mole.

Gripping the shovel tightly, I returned it to the usual position on my back. I still had a blonde-haired idiot to find. Following the trail to a small stream, I noticed a second set of tracks in the spongy ground lining the water bank. Large, almost humanlike, they shadow the small footprints of Butters. A pile of sticks lay discarded to the side, almost appearing to be dropped perfectly in place. I hunker down, inspecting the prints carefully. Though it was always a possibility that it could be bigfoot in South Park, I identified the prints as belonging to a regular Grizzly bear.

It appeared that the bear stumbled upon Butters at the stream, and the two had a scuffle. The chances of Butters' survival rate simply plummeted through the ground at that point, leaving me to wonder what point it was to find his mangled, half eaten body among the trails meandering through the forest. Pinching the bridge of my nose and closing my eyes, I inhaled deeply, expelling the smoke forcefully from my lungs as it rushed out.

I was being paid to find dead kids now.

"Sheet."