CHAPTER TWO: Cartman Manor

When Stan arrived at Cartman's house that evening – or, as the hand-written plaque above the door now declared it, Cartman Manor – he found Kyle already waiting for him, hovering impatiently by the front door.

The apparent irritation in his features had been inflicted by several issues; not least the cold weather, the lack of X-Box and the violent death that inevitably lurked ahead. But upon seeing his friend he at least attempted a brief smile.

They shared the obligatory "hey dude", Stan noting, 'Man, it's really starting to snow, huh? We could end up getting trapped inside Casa Cartman.'

Kyle, who was familiar with the conventions of mystery novels, groaned. 'Aw, don't say that!'

'What? Why?'

'Because that always happens! It's called a locked-room mystery. They're gonna find my bruised and beaten body stripped naked in the snow, but nobody could get into the building because of the weather so it must be one of you guys and in an incredible—'

'Dude,' Stan interrupted, harshly, 'what the hell are you talking about?'

'Don't rape me, goddammit!'

'Uh…' It wasn't every day he heard such a commandment. 'Uh, ok. Are we going in?'

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Wendy Testaburger's first experience of Cartman Manor was, to say the least, unexpected.

It wasn't just the fact that Butters had answered the door wearing little more than a bowtie to usher her down into the basement, nor the fact that he was speaking with a rather passable English accent as he did.

Perhaps it was more to do with the sight of Eric Cartman in a velvet dressing gown, adjusting his monocle with a tobacco pipe pursed between his lips.

Then again, it could have been the way he said, 'Ah, Ms…Testaburger, is it? Yes, I'm glad you could make it. Coffee? Cognac? Condom? No? Very well; please take a seat, right hyah.'

After a silent minute or so, Wendy managed to close her gaping mouth to demand: 'Cartman, what the hell is going on?'

He waved her aside with an unusually delicate flip of his fat hand and said, ''Scuse meh, Wendy – AY! Butters! What the hell kind of accent do you call that, you British piece of shit?!'

'But I'm not British, Eric!' Butters protested, feebly. Wendy finally took the time to notice that, in addition to his bowtie, he was dressed in a pair of leather boxers and some sensible shoes.

Cartman shouted, 'You'll be as British as I tell you until Pip gets here, a'right?! Goddamn limey bastard! – sit down, Wendy.'

She briefly considered her options, glancing from her clearly unhinged host to his scantily-clad butler, eyed the staircase that lead to freedom and shuffled discreetly towards it.

'Ok,' she said calmly, maintaining eye contact all the while (operating on the logic that if it worked on a rhinoceros, it would work on Eric), 'um, I've actually got a lot of school work to be getting on with, so I'm gonna—'

Cartman chuckled. Always unnerving. 'Oh, no no no no, Wendy. You cannot leave the murder-mystery soiree once you have entered; those are the rules.'

'What rules?' she asked indignantly, abandoning the rhino idea. 'You never mentioned any rules, you just said—'

'Ay!' he cried, once again snapping out of the badly applied English accent, 'You're at my sophisticated murder-mystery soiree, and you'll follow my rules, ho! You've got to – to stay friendly and drink safe, and always wear protection!'

'Protection?'

'Yeah! Like little plastic socks, and stuff.' He'd taken the rules from those laid out by his mother at her party the previous week. Butters' outfit was also of the same source. There were many other rules in force at the last party, but Cartman decided most of them didn't apply to his idea of a good time as penetration wasn't so heavily involved; besides which, he couldn't figure out how to pronounce "kinky".

'Dammit Cartman,' Wendy sighed, grudgingly taking a seat – one of several set out, apparently, for the purpose – 'I knew this was a dumb idea. It's a school night.'

'Oh dear,' he said, slipping back into that implacable accent, 'well, heaven forbid our hippy smack-ho friend should fall below a grade A average, eh, butler?'

'Oh,' said Butters, uncertainly, 'why, that's me.'

Wendy glared. 'Somebody has to kick your ass with the grade curb, dick-ear.'

'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but you're being held against your will and I'm not.'

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It was some time later than Stan and Kyle knocked against the front door of Cartman Manor, and some time after that that their knock was answered by a wheezing butler.

'Oh,' he said, cheerfully as ever despite his lack of clothing, 'hi, fellas!'

'Butters?!' Kyle said, incredulously. 'You're invited too?'

'Why, sure I am! Only, I'm meant – oh.' He cleared his throat, and resumed his utterance in a much more English sounding voice: 'Only, I've got to play the Limey old butler 'til Pip gets here, because Eric needs someone to serve all the – all the goddamn cocktails, y'see?'

By this point in the conversation, both Stan and Kyle had noticed Butters' apparel and lack thereof, and exchanged a brief glance before coming to the unspoken decision that this was something they should never speak of again.

Eventually Stan said, 'What's the fatass got planned this time, Butters?'

'Uh, I don't know,' he replied, nervously, 'but he said that if I don't behave like a good butler, then he's gonna cut my dick off and start calling me The Buttlord instead.' He gave a dutiful chuckle, and explained, 'Y'see, it sounds kinda like Butters if you just change the last part with—'

'We get it.'

'Oh. Uh, you comin' in then, fellas? Mr Cartman's already got some guests waiting downstairs.'

Stan said, 'He has?' at the same time Kyle said, 'Mr Cartman?', but Butters ignored them both.

Instead he said, 'Well, you guys had better come in, because it's snowy out and my titties are getting awfully cold. Wouldya look at that…? And, uh, Mr Cartman says everything will be explained inside, you, uh, blasphemous gaywad Jewface.'

Kyle growled.

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'Well, if it isn't Stanley and Kahl! C'min, you guys! Take a seat!'

Kyle and Stan, stood side by side for the sake of self-preservation, looked around the room suspiciously.

'AY! FAGS! TAKE A SEAT!'

This time they obeyed, joining the group of kids who, in various states of discomfort, perched at the very edge of their respective chairs in the centre of the room, herded together like sheep.

(Kosher sheep, thought Cartman – mysteriously.)

'Hey, Token,' said Stan, slipping into the seat next to him.

'Hey Stan.'

'You here for the party?'

'Yeah,' he said, mildly annoyed, 'apparently he really needed a black guy to use as a scapegoat.'

'Oh.'

He shrugged. 'Whatever, man. At least he hasn't made me his dogsbody.'

As he said so, Butters breathlessly ran down the basement stairs, dragging a snow-capped Pip along with him, to exclaim, 'Look, Eric! The British kid's here! Can I have my pants back now?'

'No time,' Cartman replied shortly, 'I'm afraid you'll have to play the butler for the rest of the evening, Butters.'

'Aw, poop!'

'Oh,' said Pip, confused but ecstatic, 'does that mean I don't have to be the dogsbody this time? Oh, goodie! What funny-wunny! How—'

'A'right a'right, I've changed my mind. From now on, you're both butlers. Now put these leather pants on, you limey little bitch.'

'Oh, dear…'

Stan, trying desperately to block the scene unfolding between his fatass host and his makeshift butlers, turned to observe the other guests present. In the corner, glowering at Cartman's dressing gown with her arms folded, Wendy Testaburger sat with Bebe Stevens. Bebe, apparently the only person making use of the complimentary gifts, took a sip of Cognac and sculptured a "Ribbed For Her Pleasure" balloon animal.

Token, still in a state of mild annoyance, attempted to converse with Tweek, who said "oh god" a lot a surreptitiously sipped coffee out of a thermos. Taking a seat opposite them, a now leather-clad Pip sat down with the identically dressed Butters, who offered the Brit advice on how to keep his bare nipples "nice and toasty warm" in face of the cold weather. Stan quickly looked away again.

And, stood before them all looking exactly like a fat, ten-year-old Hugh Hefner, Eric Cartman dipped his monocle in Cognac and, against all logic, ate it. He was seated in a high armchair, coordinated to match his gown, watching the assembled group with a superior (and mysterious!) look upon his face.

From beside Stan, Kyle raised his voice to demand, 'What's taking so long, fatass? This party completely sucks ass.' He was met with a chorus of "yeah!"

Cartman sighed, the look of superiority vanishing to be replaced with casual annoyance, and said, 'For the love of the slaughtered Christ child, Kahl, shut your hippy Jew mouth before I bust a cap in your ass. We're still waiting on one person – and here he is!'

Kenny McCormick appeared at the bottom of the stairs. Voice muffled by his parka, he greeted the room with a cheerful, 'Hey dudes.'

Cartman immediately removed a revolver from his pocket and shot him in the face.

'Ugh!'

In the stunned silence that followed, punctuated only by the crumpling of Kenny's body, Cartman excitedly informed the room at large: 'Ok – now you have to guess who did it. C'mon, you guys!'