Notes: This chapter is based on an allegory that dates back to 360 BCE.
The rocky underground passage seemed to descend endlessly into the depths of the earth. The scant daylight that shone in through the entrance far up the path behind him amounted to little more than a glimmering pinprick. Stan clicked on his pocket flashlight and aimed the dim spot of light at the gray rocky ground before continuing on.
His legs began to grow weary. There was naught to keep him company save the echoes of his own footsteps, the occasional water drip from a stalactite above, and the soft sound of his own breathing. Stan wasn't sure how or why, but he knew they had to be in here, trapped somewhere. He just had to save them; he owed them at least that much. He had come too far back to turn away now. Further ahead, down the last stretch of the winding slope, Stan could see the incandescent glow of a perpetual light source.
Stan finally reached the bottom of the path, which opened up into a small cavernous area. The glow had been coming from a television projector, stuck to a table that had been bolted to the ground. There didn't appear to be any buttons or switches on the projector, and the channel was playing on an endless loop, as was the audio track, which sounded oddly familiar.
"What the hell?" Stan immediately looked down. He had nearly stumbled over a thick bundle of cables and tubes running across the ground in a haphazardly arranged network. Tracing the cables away from the projector with his flashlight, Stan came across something completely unexpected.
Seated in a number of rows, bound to spike-covered Inquisition era torture chairs in front of a large projector screen, were the missing adults of South Park. Sharp wires were wrapped tightly around their wrists, ankles, and throats, digging into the skin and holding them fast to the arms, legs, and backs of the chairs. The adults also seemed to have red throbbing wounds on the tops of their heads, like raw flesh had been exposed.
Upon closer inspection, Stan could see that they all had the tops of their heads sawn off, exposing their brains, into which the bundles of wires and tubes were plugged. He felt himself reaching out to unplug them, but quickly stayed his hand, fearing he might kill them if he tried. Every few seconds, an electrical pulse and a rush of chemicals were pumped in through the wires and tubes respectively. Stan winced at the sight of this, but it almost seemed to make the adults calmer and more complacent. Could they not feel their own pain?
"Mom! Dad!" Stan tried calling out. There was no response from them or from the other adults. They were all fixated on the images on the projector screen, which appeared to be some kind of cartoon, although it was hard for Stan to tell what exactly they were watching because the picture consisted only of black silhouettes. "What is this?" He waved his hand in front of his parents' faces.
"Hey, down in the front!" Skeeter exclaimed all of a sudden, causing Stan to recoil.
"Yeah!" added Jimbo. "Don't interrupt us right in the middle of our Family Guy special!"
"Family Guy?" said Stan under his breath. He looked more closely at the silhouettes. He thought he'd recognized them, and at that moment, he realized he'd heard the soundtrack before too. "Uh…" Stan couldn't tell which was more bizarre, the state that all the adults were in, or the fact that they were focused so intently on the lifeless images. "Wait, which episode is this supposed to be?"
"Oh, it's the best of Family Guy!" said Sheila. "A special that includes all of their classic gags and sketches!" The cables and tubes shuddered, like a sick congested heartbeat was driving them. Red tinged drool trickled from the corner of her mouth.
On screen, it looked like Peter had banged his knee again, and was spending the better part of five minutes moaning and hissing repeatedly. The adults laughed along in monotone. Several of them began commenting on how doing something over and over again makes it funnier.
"But I thought you hated Family Guy," said Stan, thinking back to the debacle that happened not too long ago that drove the town into a panic.
"It's not so bad, once you get into it," said Gerald. "It's the best thing on TV right now."
That was an understatement, Stan thought to himself. It was the only thing on TV, period. The adults were held immobile, so they couldn't turn their heads to see their surroundings, and they certainly couldn't get up to change the channel, if that was even possible. "How can you watch this though? There's nothing to watch!"
"That's enough, Stanley!" snapped Sharon.
On screen, the perennially annoying Vaudeville Boys were interrupting another scene with their song and dance routine. The adults laughed blankly again, although less enthusiastically. A discussion broke out in the back row about the depth of these underused characters.
"Stan, why don't you take a seat and join us, like a good little boy?" Randy suggested blankly. "Come watch the funny shadows on the wall with us." Although the wires around his neck and the cables plugged into his brain prevented him from moving, Randy moved his eyes to indicate the empty seat nearby.
Stan noticed there was one more chair just about the right size for him. Rows of glistening spikes lined the seat and back, razor wires were coiled up and waiting to snare the arms, legs, and throat of their next unsuspecting victim, and the long needles at the terminal end of a bundle of cables and tubes stood poised to latch on to his head like lamprey eels. Stan bit his lip and took a step back. Something seemed oddly and disconcertingly familiar about the chair.
On screen, it looked like Peter was once again slugging it out with the Giant Chicken. Several of the adults began cheering on Peter, several more began cheering on the Giant Chicken. It didn't take long before the two factions were yelling at each other over who was right.
Stan clapped his hands to his temples and shook his head. "How the hell can you stand to watch such a stupid show? How is random cutaway humor funny anyway?"
"Look Stan," said Linda, "Just because you don't get it doesn't mean the rest of us can't enjoy it." The cable bundles throbbed once more.
"But wouldn't you rather watch something that satirizes real world issues with relevant topical humor?" asked Stan.
"Yeah, like Murphy Brown," said Chris. "Why don't you go blah, blah, blah the Ayatollah?" he said, reminding Stan of Family Guy's mockery of shows that feature topical humor. The other adults chuckled at Stan's expense.
On screen, Stewie was once again pointing his ray gun at Lois and threatening to kill her, while Lois calmly chided him for using naughty language.
"But shouldn't jokes be inherent to a story?" asked Stan. "Why can't they use deep, situational, and emotional jokes based on what is relevant and has a point? All Family Guy does is one interchangeable joke after another!"
This did not sit well with the adults. "Stan, mocking real world issues is very offensive!" said Gerald.
"Yeah!" added Randy. "If you make fun of the things that real people believe in, people are going to get offended, therefore nobody has a right to hurt the feelings of others!"
On screen, Peter was doing his annoying trademark laugh for no particular reason.
"Isn't that just taking the lazy way out?" asked Stan.
"Stan, random cutaway gags are better, because they're safe topics," said Jimbo. "I don't see why you have to offend people to get a laugh when randomness works just as well."
"Come on," said Stan, not wanting to back down. "This is the only thing that's on, and it's the only thing you ever talk about. What about the big questions in life: Why are we here? Where are we from? Where are we going? Don't you ever talk about serious issues at all, or anything that's going on in the world?"
"Oh, I don't see why we have to care about all that," said Sharon.
On screen, Stewie was interrupting Osama bin Laden, who had just spent the last five minutes screwing up his own terrorist video.
"See? There you go," said Chris. "They use topical jokes sometimes."
"But that has nothing to do with the war, or the motivations of terrorists, or the plight of the people who live in those parts of the world!" said Stan. He recalled the time he and his friends had stowed away to Afghanistan and met some of the local kids. "I liked the first three seasons a lot better anyway."
"You just don't appreciate randomness," said Skeeter, dismissively. Another pulse of electricity coursed through the cables, bringing a placid empty grin to his face.
"There's no such thing as random," Stan retorted. "I mean, everything is funny for a reason, right? We laugh at things because they're absurd."
Randy began struggling against his restraints, much to Stan's surprise. "We've had just about enough from you, young man!" His voice became uncharacteristically guttural and threatening. "Now sit down, shut up, and just watch the shadows on the wall like a good little boy!"
"I don't want to just watch shadows all the time!" said Stan. "And I don't see why we can't watch a more intelligent show than this!"
"Stanley, stop interfering and sticking your nose where it doesn't belong!" Sharon yelled at him.
"It's easy to see what you're trying to do! You just want to offend people and make them feel stupid!" Stuart accused him.
"No, it's not like that at all!" said Stan. "Besides, why would you be offended anyway? I could just as easily say the same thing about Family Guy! Don't you think that asking people to sit and watch it with you is insulting to their intelligence?"
"Hey, if you don't like it, you don't have to ruin it for the rest of us!" snapped Mrs. McCormick. She also began struggling against her restraints. The other adults followed suit, not seeming to notice the razor wires slicing and sawing back and forth against their bones as they tried to get their hands on Stan. The network of cables running through the theater was pulsating angrily.
Stan felt completely conflicted. On one hand, he hadn't come back all this way just to turn around and leave. On the other hand, he could think of no way to release the adults from their bonds without causing them excruciating pain, or risking his own life in the process. Although they could not move, they looked like they would tear him apart with their angry glares alone.
"You've gotta stop!" Stan tried to reason with them. "You're only going to hurt yourselves if you keep…" He sighed through clenched teeth, at a loss for words. His very presence was acting as an irritant and perceived as a threat to the people he was trying to save. How could they have misunderstood him to such a degree? He was a stranger in a hostile realm, and they saw him as nothing more than an invader.
"Stan, you're making a mistake." The blue-haired boy stepped into view from behind a wide stalagmite, his head bowed in contemplation.
"You! Thank God!" exclaimed Stan, frantically running up to the kid and grabbing him by the collar with both hands. "You have to help me get through to them! I have to save them!"
The Guide could only shake his head. "Stan, don't," he spoke in hushed tones.
"What do you mean, 'don't'?" asked Stan in desperation, shaking the boy by the collar. Tears began to cloud his eyes. "Look at them! We can't just leave them like this." He tried to force himself not to take his eyes of his parents and the other adults, but the deep-seated feeling of horrified pity he'd been repressing caught up with him nonetheless.
"Stan," said the Guide, patiently removing Stan's hands from his collar one at a time. He looked over in the direction of the long passage leading out of the cave. "Listen to me now. You need to walk away from this situation for your own good."
The adults all laughed once more in unison at the shadowy antics on screen, compelled by some conditioned reflex.
Stan tore his gaze away from the sight of them, blinking hard to wring the tears from his eyes. "I thought I knew them," he sobbed, resigned. "I thought they knew me."
"Let it go," said the Guide. "That's all I can say to you right now. Let it go." It was then that the Guide did something unexpected. He gingerly took Stan's hand and gave him an encouraging smile.
"I just never saw this coming." Stan began at a slow reluctant pace out of the theater area and back to the cave passage. "I tried to explain myself to them. I thought they'd understand. They're all adults, after all."
"I know you just wanted to do the right thing," said the Guide, "But people are often set in their ways. They feel that any criticism of what they do is the same as personal criticism."
"But it's not," Stan objected. He could not help but to keep glancing back at the theater and its rows of blissful occupants. "Telling someone their ways are wrong isn't the same as saying they're a bad person."
"I know that, but you have to learn that this isn't an ideal world," the Guide explained.
Stan hesitated again. "What if I just, you know, make sure they're all right?" He began to backtrack, but the blue-haired boy held on to his arm.
"You think they would even care?" asked the Guide. "Do you think you should…?"
As if sensing Stan's potential reentry into the theater, the small chair he had been offered before scooted around and turned towards him on its own volition. The cables and tubes running up the length of the seat back rose up and began to extend eagerly towards him like a mass of flesh-eating worms, with their long needles glistening in the light of the projector. The chair itself tilted and leaned forward so that its arms and front legs rested on the floor, as it undulated each of its rows of spikes in turn.
The message was clear. If Stan wished to return, he would have to do so on his hands and knees. He would have to become like one of them, pretend he was something he was not, and sacrifice every last bit of his integrity. Yet he remained frozen to the spot, no matter how much his mind willed his body to flee.
"We have to go," said the Guide with a sense of urgency. "Now!"
The boy gave a hard tug on Stan's arm, pulling him out of the way and into a dead run at the last second before the cables lashed out at him. "But I can't leave them!" Stan protested, even though he knew that turning back now was completely out of the question.
"Leave them!" the Guide insisted firmly.
Stan knew better than to argue this time. He sprinted up the passage as fast as he could. At the first glimmer of light from the cave exit above, the bundle of cables seemed to shrink away, as did Stan's lingering doubts. The path ahead grew brighter, and Stan found himself stepping back into his own footprints from before, when he had first entered the cave.
When he at last arrived at the entryway, Stan stopped to catch his breath. "I wish I could have done more. I wish I could at least let them know I'm sorry I couldn't save them."
The Guide sighed. "Like I said Stan, let it go."
"Yeah, let it go," Stan echoed. He walked the last few steps up the steep grade before adding, "I guess it wouldn't have done me any good to stay behind, and even if I could, nothing good can come out of arguing with them."
"Now you get it," said the Guide. "Sometimes you have to know the difference between a winnable fight and banging your head against a wall of stupid."
The cave entryway gave way to the dazzling light of the sun, which shone brightly overhead, and Stan was reunited with a long lost feeling of belonging. "It's good to be back," he remarked.
"You should consider yourself fortunate," said the Guide.
The rays of the sun grew brighter as they passed through the swaying branches of a tree by the lake. "I do," said Stan. His surroundings rapidly dissolved into each other and faded.
Stan awoke to a room into which the afternoon sun had peeked through the shades, cutting a bright swath across his face. He turned his head and blinked his eyes a few times. His parents were nowhere to be seen and the hospital was relatively quiet for once, save for the voice of his doctor discussing business down the hall.
"We'll just need you to sign these release papers," he heard the doctor say. "Yes, I know there will be a difficult road ahead. I understand, and we'll do everything we can to make it easier to adjust."
Was someone softly weeping? Tears of joy? It was hard to tell.
The doctor entered Stan's room. "Mr. Marsh. How are you feeling?"
"Where'd my parents go?" was the first thing Stan could think to ask. "I've been kind of worried about them." That was an understatement.
The doctor sighed. "Your father spent last night getting drunk, but since he'd just donated blood, well it didn't take very long to drive his count over the limit. I know this only because he ended up right back here afterwards." He chuckled to himself, possibly to ease Stan's anxiety by showing that he'd dealt with this before. "I'm surprised his liver didn't shut down."
Stan pinched the bridge of his nose and grimaced with his eyes shut. "Great. Just what I need."
"Stan, listen," said the doctor, taking on a more somber tone. "I thought you should know your friends have been released."
"Oh really?" asked Stan. "Yeah, I was wondering where they were today. I was just about to ask."
The doctor said nothing for about half a minute, while he pondered over Stan's charts. "Your condition seems to be stable for now. Maybe once you've recovered, you can arrange with their parents to visit them."
Stan was a little confused. "I what? Oh, right. Yeah, I can't wait to see them again. But why can't they just visit me?" That was a rhetorical question, he realized. It was a school day, as far as he could tell, and his friends were probably too busy. Stan rolled his eyes. "And I thought I was afraid of hospitals…"
"I'll give you some time alone then," said the doctor. "I have to stop in with your father, so I'll let your mom know you're up."
"Don't remind me," Stan muttered under his breath. He switched on the TV and began flipping stations, but there was nothing on that held his interest for long. He wished his parents had brought him a video game, or at least something to read to occupy his time. Stan couldn't wait to get well fast, so that he could see his friends again. For the time being, there wasn't much else to do but lie in bed and let his mind wander.
The days that followed grew lonely and felt like they dragged on forever, without so much as a word from Kyle, Kenny, or Cartman. Stan was not entirely alone, as his parents would occasionally drop by with his homework assignments, and to allow Shelley to verbally torment him when they weren't looking. His dreams were relatively peaceful for once, serving as a respite from the grim reality of the waking world. He spent most of them hanging out by the lakeside with the blue-haired boy, basking in the sun, observing the reflections of trees in the rippling water, and studying the shapes of the clouds overhead.
Things however would start to drastically change before long.