Author's Note:
This South Park fanfic is based on the Filipino novel Noli Me Tángere by Dr. José Rizal, so forgive me if my writing is complete shit, because this is my first ever fanfic.
Also, this is going to be a Stendy fanfic, with Stan and Wendy taking the roles of Crisóstomo Ibarra and María Clara, respectively, along with some really, really fucked-up shit...
Chapter 1: A Social Gathering:
On the last of October, Mister Robert Testaburger, also known as Mayor Testaburger, gave a dinner. Even though, contrary to his custom, he had made the announcement only that afternoon, it was already the sole topic of conversation in Fort Collins and adjacent districts, and even in the Mile High City, for at that time, Mayor Testaburger was considered one of the most hospitable of men. It was well known that his house, like his country, shut its doors against nothing except commerce and all new or bold ideas. Like an electric shock, the announcement ran through the world of parasites, bores, and hangers-on, whom God, in His infinite bounty, creates and so kindly multiplies in Denver. Some looked at once for shoe polish, others for buttons and cravats, but all were especially concerned about how to greet the master of the house in the most familiar tone, to create an atmosphere of ancient friendship or, if occasion should arise, to excuse a late arrival.
This dinner was given in a house on Main Street, and although we do not remember the number, we will describe it so that it may still be recognized, provided the earthquakes have not destroyed it. We do not believe that its owner has had it torn down, for such labors are generally entrusted to God or nature—which powers hold the contracts also for many of the projects of our government. It is a rather large building, in the style of many in the country, and fronts upon the arm of the Colorado River, which is known to some as the Lifeline of the Southwest, and which, like all the streams in Denver, plays the varied roles of bath, sewer, laundry, fishery, means of transportation and communication, and even drinking water if the Chinese water-carrier finds it convenient. It is worthy of note that in the distance of nearly a mile this important artery of the district, where traffic is most dense and movement most deafening, can boast of only one wooden bridge, which is out of repair on one side for six months and impassable on the other for the rest of the year, so that during the hot season the ponies take advantage of this permanent status quo to jump off the bridge into the water, to the great surprise of the abstracted mortal who may be dozing inside the carriage or philosophizing upon the progress of the age.
The house of which we are speaking is somewhat low and not exactly correct in all its lines: whether the architect who built it was afflicted with poor eyesight or whether the earthquakes and typhoons have twisted it out of shape, no one can say with certainty. A wide staircase with green newels and carpeted steps leads from the tiled entrance up to the main floor between rows of flower pots set upon pedestals of motley-colored and fantastically decorated Chinese porcelain. Since there are neither porters nor servants who demand invitation cards, we will go in, O you who read this, whether friend or foe, if you are attracted by the strains of the orchestra, the lights, or the suggestive rattling of dishes, knives, and forks, and if you wish to see what such a gathering is like in the distant Centennial State. Gladly, and for my comfort, I should spare you this description of the house, were it not of great importance, since we mortals in general are very much like tortoises: we are esteemed and classified according to our shells; in this and still other respects the mortals of Colorado in particular also resemble tortoises.
If we go up the stairs, we immediately find ourselves in a spacious hallway, called there, for some unknown reason, the caterer, which tonight serves as the dining-room and at the same time affords a place for the orchestra. In the center, a large table profusely and expensively decorated seems to beckon to the hanger-on with sweet promises while it threatens the bashful maiden, the simple girl, with two mortal hours in the company of strangers whose language and conversation usually have a very restricted and special character.
Contrasted with these terrestrial preparations are the motley paintings on the walls representing religious matters, such as "Purgatory," "Hell," "The Last Judgment," "The Death of the Just," and "The Death of the Sinner."
At the back of the room, fastened in a splendid and elegant framework, in the Renaissance style, possibly by Arévalo, is a glass case in which are seen the figures of two old women. The inscription on this read: "Our Lady of Peace and Prosperous Voyages, who is worshiped in Boulder, visiting in the disguise of a beggar the holy and renowned Mayor McDaniels during her sickness." While the work reveals little taste or art, yet it possesses in compensation an extreme realism, for to judge from the yellow and bluish tints of her face the sick woman seems to be already a decaying corpse, and the glasses and other objects, accompaniments of long illness, are so minutely reproduced that even their contents may be distinguished. In looking at these pictures, which excite the appetite and inspire gay bucolic ideas, one may perhaps be led to think that the malicious host is well acquainted with the characters of the majority of those who are to sit at his table and that, to conceal his way of thinking, he has hung from the ceiling costly Chinese lanterns; bird-cages without birds; red, green, and blue globes of frosted glass; faded air-plants; and dried and inflated fishes. The view is closed on the side of the river by curious wooden arches, half Chinese and half American, affording glimpses of a terrace with arbors and bowers faintly lighted by paper lanterns of many colors.
In the table, among massive mirrors and gleaming chandeliers, the guests are assembled. Here, on a raised platform, stands a grand piano of great price, which tonight has the additional virtue of not being played upon. Here, hanging on the wall, is an oil painting of a handsome man in full dress, rigid, erect, straight as the tasseled cane he holds in his stiff, ring-covered fingers—the whole seeming to say, "Ahem! See how well dressed and how dignified I am!" The furnishings of the room are elegant and perhaps uncomfortable and unhealthful, since the master of the house would consider not so much the comfort and health of his guests as his ostentation, A terrible thing is dysentery, he would say to them, but you are sitting in European chairs and that is something you don't find every day.
This room is almost filled with people, the men being separated from the women as in synagogues and Catholic churches. The women consist of several American maidens, who, when they open their mouths to yawn, instantly cover them with their fans and who murmur only a few words to each other, any conversation ventured upon dying out in monosyllables like the sounds heard in a house at night, sounds made by the rats and lizards. Is it perhaps the different likenesses of Our Lady hanging on the walls that force them to silence and a religious demeanor, or is it that the women here are an exception?
A cousin of Mayor Testaburger, a sweet-faced old woman who speaks English quite badly, is the only one receiving the ladies. To offer to the American ladies a plate of cigars, to extend her hand to her countrywomen to be kissed, exactly as the friars do — this is the sum of her courtesy, her policy. The poor old lady soon became bored and, taking advantage of the noise of a plate breaking, rushed precipitately away, muttering, "Jesus! Just wait, you rascals!" and failed to reappear.
The men, for their part, are making more of a stir. Some cadets in one corner are conversing in a lively manner but in low tones, looking around now and then to point out different persons in the room while they laugh more or less openly among themselves. In contrast, two foreigners dressed in white are promenading silently from one end of the room to the other with their hands crossed behind their backs, like the bored passengers on the deck of a ship. All the interest and the greatest animation proceed from a group composed of two priests, two civilians, and a soldier who are seated around a small table on which are seen bottles of wine and English biscuits.
The soldier, a tall, elderly lieutenant with an austere countenance—a lead detective straggling behind in the roster of the Park County Police Force—talks little, but in a harsh, curt way. One of the priests, a youthful Dominican friar, handsome, graceful, polished as the gold-mounted eyeglasses he wears, maintains a premature gravity. He is the curate of Fort Collins and has been in former years a professor in Colorado State University, where he enjoyed the reputation of being a consummate dialectician, so much so that in the days when the sons of Guzman still dared to match themselves in subtleties with laymen, the able disputant B. de Luna had never been able either to catch or to confuse him, the distinctions made by Father Mackey leaving his opponent in the situation of a fisherman who tries to catch eels with a lasso. The Dominican says little, appearing to weigh his words.
In contrast, the other priest, a Franciscan, talks much and gesticulates more. Although his hair is beginning to turn gray, he seems to be preserving well his robust constitution, while his regular features, his rather disquieting glance, his wide jaws and herculean frame give him the appearance of a Roman noble in disguise and make us involuntarily recall one of those three monks of whom Heine tells in his Gods in Exile, who at the September equinox in the Tyrol used to cross a lake at midnight and each time place in the hand of the poor boatman a silver piece, cold as ice, which left him full of terror. But Father Garrison is not so mysterious as they were. He is full of merriment, and if the tone of his voice is rough like that of a man who has never had to correct himself and who believes that whatever he says is holy and above improvement, still his frank, merry laugh wipes out this disagreeable impression and even obliges us to pardon his showing to the room bare feet and hairy legs that would make the fortune of a group of mountains in the El Paso fairs.
One of the civilians is a very small man with a black beard; the only thing notable about him is his nose, which, to judge from its size, ought not to belong to him. The other is a rubicund youth who seems to have arrived but recently in the country. With him, the Franciscan is carrying on a lively discussion.
"You'll see," the friar was saying, "when you've been here a few months, you'll be convinced of what I say. It's one thing to govern in the District of Columbia and another to live in Colorado."
"But—"
"I, for example," continued Father Garrison, raising his voice still higher to prevent the other from speaking, "I, for example, who can look back over twenty-three years of bananas and apple pie, know whereof I speak. Don't come at me with theories and fine speeches, for I know the Indian. Mark well that the moment I arrived in the country, I was assigned to a toxin, small it is true, but especially devoted to agriculture. I didn't understand Numic very well then, but I was, soon confessing the women, and we understood one another and they came to like me so well that three years later, when I was transferred to another and larger town, made vacant by the death of the native curate, all fell to weeping, they heaped gifts upon me, they escorted me with music—"
"But that only goes to show—"
"Wait, wait! Don't be so hasty! My successor remained a shorter time, and when he left, he had more attendance, more tears, and more music. Yet he had been more given to whipping and had raised the fees in the parish to almost double."
"But you will allow me—"
"But that isn't all. I stayed in the town of South Park twenty years, and it has been only a few months since I left it."
Here, he showed signs of chagrin.
"Twenty years, no one can deny, are more than sufficient to get acquainted with a town. South Park has a population of four thousand souls, and I knew every inhabitant as well as if I had been his mother and wet-nurse. I knew in which foot this one was lame, where the shoe pinched that one, who was courting that girl, what affairs she had had and with whom, who was the real father of the child, and so on—for I was the confessor of every last one, and they took care not to fail in their duty. Our host, Testaburger, will tell you whether I am speaking the truth, for he has a lot of land there and that was where we first became friends—Well then, you may see what the Indian is: when I left, I was escorted by only a few old women and some of the tertiary brethren—and that after I had been there twenty years!"
But I don't see what that has to do with the abolition of the tobacco monopoly, ventured the rubicund youth, taking advantage of the Franciscan's pausing to drink a glass of sherry.
Father Garrison was so greatly surprised that he nearly let his glass fall. He remained for a moment, staring fixedly at the young man.
"What? How's that?" He was finally able to exclaim in great wonderment. "Is it possible that you don't see it as clear as day? Don't you see, my son, that all this proves plainly that the reforms of the ministers are irrational?"
It was now the youth's turn to look perplexed. The detective wrinkled his eyebrows a little more, and the small man nodded toward Father Garrison equivocally. The Dominican contented himself with almost turning his back on the whole group.
"Do you believe so?" the young man at length asked with great seriousness as he looked at the friar with curiosity.
"Do I believe so? As I believe the Gospel! The Indian is so indolent!"
"Ah, pardon me for interrupting you," said the young man, lowering his voice and drawing his chair a little closer, "but you have said something that awakens all my interest. Does this indolence naturally exist among the natives, or is there some truth in what a foreign traveler says: that with this indolence, we excuse our own as well as our backwardness and our colonial system? He referred to other colonies whose inhabitants belong to the same race—"
"Bah, jealousy! Ask Mr. Hat, who also knows this place. Ask him if there is any equal to the ignorance and indolence of the Indian."
"It's true," affirmed the little puppet, who was referred to as Mr. Hat. "In no part of the world can you find anyone more indolent than the Indian, in no part of the world."
"Nor more vicious, nor more ungrateful!"
"Nor more unmannerly!"
The rubicund youth began to glance about nervously. "Gentlemen," he whispered, "I believe that we are in the house of an Indian. Those young ladies—"
"Bah, don't be so apprehensive! Testaburger doesn't consider himself an Indian—and besides, he's not here. And what if he were! These are the nonsensical ideas of the newcomers. Let a few months pass, and you will change your opinion after you have attended a lot of festivals and dances, slept on cots, and eaten your fill of chocolate salty balls."
"Ah, is this thing that you call chocolate salty balls a variety of testicles which makes people—er—forgetful?"
"Nothing of the kind!" exclaimed Father Garrison with a smile. "You're getting absurd. Chocolate salty balls are a chocolate confectionery rounded into a ball shape with added salt. How long has it been since you got here?"
"Four days," responded the youth, rather offended.
"Have you come as a government employee?"
"No, sir, I've come at my own expense to study this state."
"Man, what a rare bird!" exclaimed Father Garrison, staring at him with curiosity. "To come at one's own expense and for such foolishness! What a wonder! When there are so many books! And with two fingerbreadths of forehead! Many have written books as big as that! With two fingerbreadths of forehead!"
The Dominican here brusquely broke in upon the conversation. "Did your Reverence, Father Garrison, say that you had been twenty years in the town of South Park and that you had left it? Wasn't your Reverence satisfied with the town?"
At this question, which was put in a very natural and almost negligent tone, Father Garrison suddenly lost all his merriment and stopped laughing. "No!" he grunted dryly and let himself back heavily against the back of his chair.
The Dominican went on in a still more indifferent tone. "It must be painful to leave a town where one has been for twenty years and which he knows as well as the clothes he wears. I certainly was sorry to leave Aspen, and that was after I had been there only a few months. But my superiors did it for the good of the Orders for my good."
Father Garrison, for the first time that evening, seemed to be very thoughtful. Suddenly, he brought his fist down on the arm of his chair and, with a heavy breath, exclaimed: "Either Religion is a fact or it is not! That is, either the curates are free, or they are not! This state is going to ruin, it is lost!" And again, he struck the arm of his chair.
Everybody at the table turned toward the group with astonished looks. The Dominican raised his head to stare at the Franciscan from under his glasses. The two foreigners paused a moment, stared with an expression of mingled severity and reproof, then immediately continued their promenade.
"He's in a bad humor because you haven't treated him with deference," murmured Mr. Hat into the ear of the rubicund youth.
"What does your Reverence mean? What's the trouble?" inquired the Dominican and the detective at the same time but in different tones.
"That's why so many calamities come! The ruling powers support heretics against the ministers of God!" continued the Franciscan, raising his heavy fists.
"What do you mean?" again inquired the frowning detective, half rising from his chair.
"What do I mean?" repeated Father Garrison, raising his voice and facing the detective. "I'll tell you what I mean. I, yes, I, mean to say that when a priest throws out of his cemetery the corpse of a heretic, no one, not even the President himself, has any right to interfere and much less to impose any punishment! But a little General—a little General Calamity—"
"Father, the President is the head of state and head of government of the United States!" shouted the detective, rising to his feet.
"President! United States! What of that!" retorted the Franciscan, also rising. "In other times, he would have been shot in the head as John Wilkes Booth once did with the impious President Lincoln. Those were indeed the days of faith."
"I warn you that I can't permit this! The President represents his nation and its people!"
"President or rook! What difference does that make? For us, there is no king other than the legitimate—"
"Halt!" shouted the detective in a threatening tone, as if he were commanding his officers. "Either you withdraw what you have said, or tomorrow I will report it to the President!"
"Go ahead—right now—go on!" was the sarcastic rejoinder of Father Garrison as he approached the officer with clenched fists. "Do you think that because I wear the cloth, I'm afraid? Go now, while I can lend you my carriage!"
The dispute was taking a ludicrous turn, but fortunately, the Dominican intervened. "Gentlemen," he began in an authoritative tone and with the nasal twang that so well becomes the friars, you must not confuse things or seek for offenses where there are none. "We must distinguish, in the words of Father Garrison, those of the man from those of the priest. The latter, as such, per se, can never give offense, because they spring from absolute truth, while in those of the man there is a secondary distinction to be made: those which he utters in anger, those which he utters in bad breath, but not in heart, and those which he does utter in heart. These last are the only ones that can offend, and only according to whether they pre-existed as a motive in mind, or arose solely per accidens in the heat of the discussion, if there exist—"
"But I, by accident and for my part, understand his motives, Padre Sibyla," broke in the middle-aged detective, who saw himself about to be entangled in so many distinctions that he feared lest he might still be held to blame. "I understand the motives about which your Reverence is going to make distinctions. During the absence of Father Garrison from South Park, his coadjutor buried the body of an extremely worthy individual—yes, sir, extremely worthy, for I had had dealings with him many times and had been entertained in his house. What if he never went to confession? What does that matter? Neither do I go to confession! But to say that he committed suicide is a lie, a slander! A man such as he was, who has a son upon whom he centers his affection and hopes, a man who has faith in God, who recognizes his duties to society, a just and honorable man, does not commit suicide. This much I will say and will refrain from expressing the rest of my thoughts here, so please your Reverence."
Then, turning his back on the Franciscan, he went on: "Now then, this priest on his return to the town, after maltreating the poor coadjutor, had the corpse dug up and taken away from the cemetery to be buried I don't know where. The people of South Park were cowardly enough not to protest, although it is true that few knew of the outrage. The dead man had no relatives there, and his only son was in Harvard. But his Excellency learned of the affair, and as he is an upright man, asked for some punishment—and Father Garrison was transferred to a better town. That's all there is to it. Now, your Reverence can make your distinctions."
So saying, he withdrew from the group.
"I'm sorry that I inadvertently brought up so delicate a subject," said Padre Sibyla sadly. "But, after all, if there has been a gain in the change of towns—"
"How is there to be a gain? And what of all the things that are lost in moving, the letters, and the—and everything that is mislaid?" interrupted Father Garrison, stammering in the vain effort to control his anger.
Little by little, the party resumed its former tranquility. Other guests had come in, among them a lame American of mild and inoffensive aspect leaning on the arm of an elderly fellow American, who was resplendent in frizzes and paint and a European gown. The group welcomed them heartily, and Doctor Gauche and his wife, the Nurse McSchwartz, took their seats among our acquaintances. Some newspaper reporters and shopkeepers greeted one another and moved about aimlessly without knowing just what to do.
"But can you tell me, Mr. Hat, what kind of man our host is?" inquired the rubicund youth. "I haven't been introduced to him yet."
"They say that he has gone out. I haven't seen him either."
"There's no need for introductions here," volunteered Father Garrison. "Testaburger is made of the right stuff."
"No, he's not the man who invented gunpowder," added Mr. Hat.
"You too, Mr. Hat," exclaimed Nurse McSchwartz in mild reproach as she fanned herself. "How could the poor man invent gunpowder if, as is said, the Chinese invented it centuries ago?"
"The Chinese! Are you crazy?" cried Father Garrison. "Out with you! A Franciscan, one of my Order, Father What-do-you-call-him Savalls, invented it in the—ah, the seventh century!"
"A Franciscan? Well, he must have been a missionary in China, that Father Savalls," replied the lady, who did not thus easily part from her beliefs.
"Schwartz, perhaps you mean, madame," said Father Mackey, without looking at her.
"I don't know. Father Garrison said a Franciscan, and I was only repeating."
"Well, Savalls or Chevas, what does it matter? The difference of a letter doesn't make him a Chinaman," replied the Franciscan in bad humor.
"And in the fourteenth century, not the seventh," added the Dominican in a tone of correction, as if to mortify the pride of the other friar.
"Well, neither does a century more or less make him a Dominican."
"Don't get angry, your Reverence," admonished Father Mackey, smiling. "So much the better that he did invent it to save his brethren the trouble."
"And did you say, Father Mackey, that it was in the fourteenth century?" asked Nurse McSchwartz with great interest. "Was that before or after Christ?"
Fortunately for the individual questioned, two persons entered the room.
Author's Note:
Alright, that is the first chapter of this abomination of a crossover fanfic. Plus, who might these two people be? Let's find out in the next chapter.