A/N: Dear readers, sorry this update has been such a long time coming but I've been incredibly busy. Hope to do better in the future . Thanks for the reads, and especially thanks for the reviews! I've made this chapter a little longer in a feeble effort to appease you. :)

CHAPTER FIVE: Death o'Clock

All conversation was interrupted by the delicate clapping of Cartman's hands. A crowd of weary faces turned to him as he climbed aboard Kenny's corpse, waving his hands primly to attract their attention.

'Ok, you gahs, we all know why you're here.' Much glaring occurred, all of it in his direction. Cartman ignored it, and concluded: 'My aggressive sexual magnetism. Now—'

'What?!' Kyle spluttered, unable to absorb the ghastly images this statement had presented.

'Don'tinterruptmeKahl! Now, for this stage of the game, I've divided you into two groups – the Jews, and the non-Jews.'

'What?!' Kyle repeated, choking his indignation. 'That's not fair!'

'Hey, it's not like you're not the only one!'

Kyle looked down at his feet. Artemis Clyde frog was slumped across them.

Voice radiating considerable disbelief, he demanded, 'Artemis Clyde frog's a Jew?!'

'You're damn right he is,' Cartman replied, a touch of loathing present in his voice. 'I can tell you, it can get real difficult to live with sometimes – he's shaloming all over the place. You've got to have pity for that kind of behaviour.'

'Oh my god.'

Cartman just looked pleased with himself, ignoring the horrified reactions inspired by his increasingly un-PC behaviour. Although, on reflection, shooting your best friend in the face was pretty much as politically incorrect as you could get.

'Now,' he continued, once the silence had returned, 'everyone's in this room and all the doors are locked. Pretty soon, one of you will die.' He flashed a charismatic grin, adding, 'And if you're lucky, Token, it might not even be you!'

'Yeah – ok,' Stan said, eyeing the machete tucked in his host's dressing gown, 'but – I mean, no one's actually going to die, right Cartman?'

Cartman continued to smile, though his brow creased slightly in incomprehension. 'Why, of course they are Stan – or what the hell would be the point in that?'

'But – I mean, no one's actually going to die,' Stan insisted, in a prime example of wishful thinking.

'Uh, yes they are, Stanley.'

'But they're not really.'

'I'm pretty sure they are, you guys.'

'Well – Jesus Christ, Cartman, you can't do that!'

'Sure I can! Now shut up, it's almost time.'

'What time?'

'Murder time!' His grin broadened as he stepped off Kenny's body, circulating through the crowds like a bad smell. 'Death o'clock! Die AM; a quarter past dead.' He took a seat in the centre of the room, and finished: 'Discuss.'

For several seconds, nobody spoke. Then Kyle began, 'Jesus Christ, dude—'

'WITHIN YOUR GROUPS, KAHL!'

'Ugh!'

--

It wasn't a rare thing for Wendy Testaburger to wish she lived elsewhere. A girl of her age, ambition of abilities wasn't meant for small-town life, unless at the expense of some divine joke (which, all things considered, wasn't that unlikely). But perhaps it could be argued that South Park had made her who she was today: that it's twisted, closed-off mindset had caused her to rebel; that its spanktardic twists and turns had made her more open-minded and emotionally developed, setting her on the track of an amazing and far-reaching life that she was prepared to view with eyes and mind wide open.

Or perhaps it had warped her brain to such a hideous extent that she wanted nothing more than to leap at Eric Cartman, suck at his mouth until he turned blue in the face and then bear mace everyone in the room until their eyes bled.

Who could say?

'This town,' she growled, more to herself than her companions, 'is pushing me over the edge.'

--

Ten minutes later, Cartman's gleeful demeanour still hadn't slipped. He skipped as lithely as his fat ass could manage – surprisingly lithely, as it turned out – as he set up a long table in the centre of the room, placing around it chairs for eight people. Wendy frowned at the thought: ten people at the party (eleven if you included Artemis Clyde Frog), and three missing seats? As the concerned murmur of strained conversation continued around her, she grabbed Eric's arm as he skipped by, stopping him in his tracks.

'Fat boy,' she growled, in a low voice.

'Lesbian,' he replied cheerfully. 'Not planning on begging for your freedom, are you?'

She ignored that; the thought of begging him was far too sickening. 'What's with the seating arrangements? Or have you just forgotten how to count?'

He raised a quizzical eyebrow. 'I don't know what you're talking about, ho. Eight seats, eight guests.'

'There's eleven.'

'Kenny's kinda dead,' he reminded her, diplomatically. 'But if you really want, we can take advantage of the rigor mortis and prop him in a seated position, manipulating his mouth with a system of levers and twigs and—'

'Ten, then.'

'Pip and Butters count as staff, and accordingly aren't permitted to sit on the furnishings. Just like black people in the '50s.'

'Asshole.'

'Prostitute.'

'You don't even know what you're doing, do you?' she challenged, glaring into his eyes. 'You're just making this up as you go along!'

'Nuh-uh,' said Cartman, façade beginning to slip slightly. 'I'm totally in control. Bitch. You'll see!'

'So, what, someone in here's seriously going to die, is that what you're telling me?'

'…Yes…'

'And we're seriously not going to know it was you?'

'Yes! Now sit down and shut up. Stupid ho.' He glanced briefly downwards, and added, 'And you might wanna let go of my arm now.'

'I – nggh!' Wendy quickly released his arm, shaking her hand hysterically as if it was alight. Cartman surveyed her quizzically for a moment, as if offended by the stupidity of her overreaction, before skipping lithely away.

Wendy's face burned.

He looked damn good in a monocle.

--

'Ok, o-k everyone!' Eric clapped his hands to reclaim their attention, though the move was unnecessary: all eyes had been glued cautiously to him for the past fifteen minutes, though occasionally they found the time to glance at the rat-eaten form of Kenny. And then very quickly back again. ''K, I hope that by now you've had enough time to get to know each other and come to terms with the horror that lies ahead.'

'I hate you.'

'Love you too, Kahl. And I hope you've all decided who's going to be the first to die, as it'll probably prepare you for the deep shock and emotional trauma that's in store. Anyone think they know whodunit yet?'

'I hate you.'

'And I'm wanting your hot body right now too, Kahl. 'K! Well, if you'd all like to take a seat at the dining table, and we'll begin the meal!'

Awkward shuffling ensued, and the assembled kids took their seats (aside from Pip and Butters, whose shivering leather-clad forms flanked Cartman's seat). Wendy made a point of sitting as far away from Eric as possible, and was privately disappointed when he didn't notice this.

'And help yourself to condoms,' the host added, gesturing to the complimentary foil packets that lined the table. He cleared his throat, surveying his assembly with serious eyes, and spoke once more: 'Death is that most serious of issues, ladies and gentlemen and Jews. It will one day come to us all: some sooner than others, some more painful than others, some more long and drawn-out than others; some will be labouring for months, perhaps years, in a decrepit and crusty pee-soaked hospital bed, burbling incoherently to the patronising, burdened faces of those you once loved as they smile weakly, desperate to cloak their wish for you to die, just die, die and put them out of their misery, just die, in your sleep, silently, with no hassle, just die. Just die.'

He was met by an incredible, wide-eyed silence. Tweek screamed.

'With that in mind,' Eric continued, 'who is going to meet their dreadful end today? Let's go around the table, shall we…?

'Kahl Broflovski, sat to my left. Sonovabitch smartass Jew, potentially harbouring depraved and lustful feelings for…well, yours truly.'

'What—?!'

'Don'tinterruptmeKahl! Or will it be his all-too faithful companion: the emotionally dense gay emo faggot, Stanley Marsh? Or, perhaps, our expendable ethnic member of the party, Token Black?'

'Hey—!'

'Or will it be the…partially bear maced token female of the party, Bebe Stevens? Or, perhaps, her outspoken hippy friend Wendy Testaburger, the giant penis monster?'

'I HAVE NOT GOT A PENIS!!'

'Or maybe the uncomfortably jittery paranoid-delusional—'

'Ngh!'

'—rampantly homosexual Tweek Tweak? Or even my very own best friend, the shifty-eyed Jew Artemis Clyde Frog? Or will it be my own limey butler bitches, Butters Scotch and Pip Pirrup?'

'Uh, Eric, I'm n-not actually British, y'know—'

'Shut up, Butters.'

'Yes sir.'

Cartman sat back in his seat, surveying them all with a look of smug satisfaction and intellectual superiority. 'As it stands, none of you are yet the victims of pre-planned homicide. Which means the only other person it could be is…me!'

And with that, he slumped back in his seat; dead.