Chapter ; Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski

Disclaimer 1 ; I don't own South Park.

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

Author's Note ; It may not seem like it, but Stan and Kyle have something to do with the story. I'm enjoying writing this, despite how short it is, and I do hope you're enjoying reading it. Thanks for all your comments, they mean a lot to me.

The following takes place between 9:16a.m and 9:25a.m on June 6th.........

My fingers flew across the guitar, hitting the right keys at the right time. Red... red... blue... yellow red red green... The colors slid up the screen in a steady rythem, the song pounding out across my new speakers. They were a gift from my mother for my eleventh birthday. Kyle hadn't gone home in three days, and had hardly moved from the spot in front of the multi-colored drum set. The sticks slammed into the drums, his foot tapped to the beat, and we were making the best music in history, rocking with the Rolling Stones.

Then the phone rang.

Pausing the game, I reached over from the edge of the bed, picking it up and hitching it against my ear as I unpaused the game. Kyle cried out in protest, though I ignored it as he missed several notes and I picked up as naturally as ever. The volume on mute, I cleared my throat. "Marsh house. Stan speaking."

"Aye, Stan, we have a problem."

I stiffen at the voice, but answer anyway. "What?"

"Its Butters, Stan, he's missing."

"Cartman, why the hell do you even care?" I ask in irritation. Kyle rolls his eyes as he realizes who I'm speaking to.

""Aye, butthole, he's my friend!"

"Dude, last week you tied him in a burlap sack and threw oranges at him. Last month you told him the jug in the fridge was lemonaid when it was really alcohol. He got drunk, and you took naked pictures of him and your cat. Don't even get me started on what you did on the last day of -"

"Okay, okay," Cartman says in irritation, obviously imprinted on some other important discussion. "Stan, think about it. Little Butters - our little Butters - is outside, alone, in the woods with no survival skills and nothing to eat. Hungry and scared."

Kyle had leaned in to our conversation, listening to Cartman's nasally voice with an increasing look of anger. After listening in on the last bit, he sighed. "God damnit, Cartman."

"Is that Kyle?"

I pause the game and cup my hand over the receiver, motioning for Kyle to be quiet. "No," I answer quickly."Why would Kyle be here?"

Cartman seemed speechless, then burst out, "Because, r-tard, he's your best friend. Jesus Christ."

"Whatever, Cartman. What do you want me to do?" I ask, setting the guitar aside and getting up to look out my window. I can never put it past Eric Cartman, what he'd do if he had the chance. Most of us were scared shitless of him. He fed a kid his parents, he gave Kyle AIDS, he kept Butters in a bomb shelter to get to a restaurant - the list went on a mile long.

"I want you to sneak into his room and find clues," Cartman says confidently.

Stan scoffed. "No way, dude. I'm not going anywhere. Find someone else to do it."

"Fine, I will!"

"Good."

"Yeah, great."

"Awesome."

"Fucking fantastic."

"Bloody wonderful."

"Splendid."

"No," I say, clicking the phone down on the receiver. "What a homo."

Kyle was going through songs on Rock Band. Looking sideways at me, he arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"He wants us to sneak into Butters' room."

"Oh, screw that," he said, picking a song and pushing the guitar towards me. "Lets play. Come on. No telling when my mom'll want me home."