The Return of Faith +1
South Park and its characters belong to Matt Stone and Trey Parker. See endnotes for specific references.
Chapter 8: 'Taint Nobody's Bizness If I Do
As Stan glanced around at the other boys in Cartman's basement, he thought about how much things had changed. A mere six months ago—less—and Cartman had been persuading them to start up the band again. It had been Cartman who had gone on Robson's show, Cartman who had come racing down the stairs yelling, "You guys! You guys! Guess what?" It had been Cartman who had cajoled and tricked Kyle into managing the band.
Now it was Kyle who was running the meeting, acting as though he had been managing talent his entire life. It wasn't as though he had never done it before, thought Stan, but he wasn't sure if Wing counted.
Token, who hadn't wanted to become a musician again, was twitching his fingers as though he were hearing bass lines in his head and was aching to try them out. Butters was looking quiet and withdrawn. He was sitting on one of Cartman's basement chairs with his legs drawn up, petting a hamster—either Plague or Death, Stan wasn't sure—and singing under his breath. Cartman just looked annoyed, but then, he always looked annoyed these days. None of them were looking at Kyle.
They had the biggest gig yet still coming up.
"Ok, guys," said Kyle, "yesterday, when we were down in Denver, the guys at Faith Records said they were going to set us up. . . "
Butters, Token, and Cartman glanced up.
". . . at the Hollywood Bowl."
Butters almost dropped Plague or Death, whichever it was. "Aw, n-no, Kyle. I don't wanna go back to Hollywood. P-Please."
"Unfortunately," said Kyle, "I've been looking over our contracts with them, and it looks as though we're obligated to. Yes, Token?"
"Do we have to stay in a motel that smells like pee?" Token asked politely.
"No," Kyle assured him. "I promise that we won't stay in a motel that smells like pee. And it's just one show. They'll fly us there and right back the next day. You aren't even the only act, so that should cut back on the screaming fangirls, Butters." Butters looked a bit happier.
"Which show?" asked Cartman.
"The Easter Sunrise Service," said Kyle. "They've been doing them in Hollywood for almost ninety years now. They always have a big gospel choir, several celebrity acts—that's us—and several different preachers."
Cartman glared. "Including Robson?"
"Well, yes," Kyle admitted. "I checked it out and usually it's a very mellow thing—lilies and doves and stuff—so I don't think he'll be too crazy."
"What the hell are you talking about?" insisted Cartman. "He's always crazy." Kenny, who had been sitting there with his light plots, nodded in agreement. "This sucks, you guys. This sucks."
"Why?" asked Kyle. "What's worse about this time?"
"Because it's Easter, you dumbass Jew. We'll be missing Easter."
"Aw," said Butters.
Kyle looked confused. "What's the big deal about Easter?"
Stan cleared his throat. "Have you been to Cartman's house on Easter, Kyle?"
"No," Kyle said, "of course not. It's usually Passover around then, anyway, but it isn't this year: turns out I won't miss any Seders, which would really annoy Mom."
Stan felt a little silly, but he knew he had to say this anyway. "Cartman's Mom," he continued, "makes a really bitchin' ham."
"And killer pies," said Cartman angrily. "I'm gonna miss Mehm's ham and pies for the goddamned frickin' Hollywood Bowl?"
Butters looked worried. "Do you th-think the Easter Bunny will su-skip me if I'm in Hollywood?"
Kyle looked over at Stan. "Um, no, Butters," he said reassuringly, "I'm sure the Easter Bunny will um, work something out."
Stan made a note. "Tell Stotches remember Easter basket Monday."
"Oh," said Butters. "Well, all r-right, then," and went back to petting his hamster.
"Goddamnit," said Cartman. "That asshole."
"The Easter B-Bunny isn't an asshole!" exclaimed Butters.
"Not the Easter Bunny," snapped Cartman. "Robson."
"I don't like what he says either," admitted Kyle.
"Yeah, but at least he doesn't smack you around," Cartman pointed out, "and make you act like—like a total fucking idiot." He knitted his brows. "If that craphead lays a finger on me," he threatened, "he will serioushley be wailing and gnashing his teeth, what's left of them."
"Mmmpphmhhmphhh, mhphm," Kenny promised.
"You will? And how are you planning to do that, Kenny?" said Cartman.
Kenny shrugged. Cartman continued, "What the fuck are you up to, Kyle? I thought you hated that asshole. You're the one with your bra in a bunch about him . Goddamnit, I thought it was personal."
Kyle looked really uncomfortable now. "You leave my Mom out of this, Cartman," he said.
"I am not," said Cartman pointedly, "talking about your Mom."
Kyle picked up his briefcase and stood up. "My hands are tied," he said, and headed for the basement stairs.
Cartman stalked over to him and glared at him, toe to toe, eye to eye, heavy hands on Kyle's shoulders.
"Wuss," he hissed. Kyle met his glare.
"My hands are tied," Kyle repeated, and shook Cartman's hands off his shoulders. "I've got to go; I promised to call Faith Records back this afternoon."
Stan followed Kyle out of Cartman's basement. As they left, Stan could hear Cartman saying, "Gentleman—there's something new I'd like us to rehearse."
At least the motel didn't smell like pee, Stan thought wearily, as they sat in the Hollywood Bowl on the Saturday afternoon before Easter. Many people were busily decorating the stage and the arena with lilies: the different bands had practiced their numbers and checked the sound levels. Kenny had climbed up into the grid and looked at the lighting possibilities: he'd also talked to the Bowl pyrotechnicians. For such an accident-prone guy, Stan thought, Kenny certainly enjoyed things that blew up.
"Excuse me," said a polite voice near them. Stan looked up to see several African-American musicians not much older than they were who were carrying instrument cases. "We were wondering if we'd been called yet."
"I don't know," said Kyle. "Who are you?" Stan noticed that Butters, Cartman, and Token had finished their rehearsal and were headed their way.
"We're the Second Line Brass Band," said one of the kids. "From New Orleans."
"I think I've heard of you," said Kyle approvingly. "In fact, I'm pretty sure my Dad has one of your CDs."
"Really?" said the kid, and smiled. All of them sat down.
"Yeah," said Kyle. "He loves your stuff. Only, I didn't think you did Christian music."
The boy looked puzzled. "We're from New Orleans," he said. "We do it all. It's all the same—jazz, gospel, blues, hot, sweet, spicy, heaven and hell—we're like a gumbo." The other kids nodded. "Hey, did anyone tell Buddy Bolden he couldn't play church if he played the dance hall? Did anyone tell Louis Armstrong that?"
"I don't know," Kyle said. "Did they?"
The kid snorted and took his trumpet out of its case. "Well, if they did, he sure as hell didn't listen," he said. He put a mute in and began to play a peppy version of "When the Saints Go Marching In," mixing it with the Mardi Gras theme "Whenever I Cease To Love" until you couldn't tell where one tune ended and the other began. Token came up and dropped into the seat next to Kyle and Stan.
"Now that," said Token, "is more like it."
The trumpet player stopped playing and looked at Token. "Hey!" he said. "You're Token Black. You do "Ain't That Peculiar?" with that cream of wheat Christian rock band."
Kyle cleared his throat, noticing that they had been joined by Butters, Cartman, and Kenny. "Um," he said, "here's the rest of the cream of wheat Christian rock band."
The trumpet player looked a little embarrassed. "Sorry, cap," he said.
Cartman must have overheard, but he didn't look pissed off. Instead he looked as though he might be thinking—often a bad sign. "Token," he said, "why don't we ask these gentlemen if they would jam with us later?"
Token looked startled, but said, "Uh, sure."
The trumpet player glanced around at his bandmates and said, "Yeah. We'd like that. Oop," he said, "gotta head on up there, looks like they're ready for us." They started for the stage, and Butters and Token ran up closer to listen to them play. Cartman took the seat Token had just left.
"How's it going, Cartman?" said Stan.
"Bad," said Cartman.
"Why bad?" said Kyle. Cartman frowned.
"Robson," he said briefly. "I've been trying to stay out of his way, but he keeps trying to get to me. What the hell does he want, anyhow?"
"I don't know," said Stan truthfully.
"I do," said a girl from the seats directly behind them.
"Crap, Wendy!" exclaimed Kyle. "Where did you come from?"
"South Park," she said. "I'm here with Big Gay Al and Mr. Slave—your Mom couldn't make it, of course."
"I don't think that's what Kyle meant," said Stan, " I think what he meant was—"
"What the fuck are you doing here, ho?" snarled Cartman.
Kyle coughed. "Not exactly that," he said tentatively, "but close."
Wendy wasn't really paying attention. "We've got every right to be here," she said. "And Robson's giving a whole long sermon about gay marriage tomorrow."
Stan looked puzzled. "He's not supposed to do that," he said blankly. "It's Easter. It's a non-denominational service. He's supposed to say something nice about peace and hope and spring and things like that."
Wendy snorted. "Honestly, Stan," she said, "you are so naïve. He's been kicking off a national campaign—you think he's going to stop just because it's Easter?"
"Jesus Christ," said Cartman, "he won't stop. You won't stop. I'm fucking sick to death of both of you. Both of you, you're there every goddamn time I turn around. I see you in my fucking nightmares. Why the hell have you always got to get involved?"
Wendy lifted her head. "Wherever you can look, wherever there's a fight, so hungry people can eat, I'll be there," she said dramatically. "Wherever there's a cop beatin' up a guy, I'll be there. I'll be there in---"
"I've got the picture, bitch," yelled Cartman.
"Mmmph!" said Kenny.
"I'm leaving," Wendy announced, standing up. "You all disgust me. Sooner or later you have to stand up for yourselves, you---you wusses." She walked away.
Stan felt a large snowball the size of a basketball forming in his stomach. In less than twenty-four hours, Robson would be up there, screaming and terrorizing people. If he wasn't stopped, he'd beat the crap out of Cartman, and keep shredding the lives of people like Big Gay Al and Mr. Slave, and hurt a lot more people. . .
"Stan?" he heard Kyle say. "You ok?" He felt a well-known hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him, and--
"Ew, gross!" said Kyle. Stan had projectile vomited down half a row of seats. Wendy glanced back, and Stan thought he could hear her snicker.
Cartman stood up; he had been hosed down pretty well, too. "I'd love to stick around and murder you, Stan," he said mildly, "but I think I'm going to look for a shower first."
5:30 am was a hell of a time for a concert to begin, thought Stan, even if it was supposed to be a Sunrise Service, and almost everyone had been pretty cranky getting up. Butters had insisted on wearing Kenny's orange parka to the Bowl, just in case. They had hurried backstage and begun to get ready.
Stan still felt sick. In fact, he was miserable. He had taken some over-the-counter nausea medication and was sipping at some flat ginger ale, curled up on a pile of canvas backstage. For obvious reasons, he wasn't allowed into the room where the band was changing. Butters and Token had already finished dressing and had gone to hang around with the band from New Orleans, but Kyle had some last minute business to discuss with Cartman. Though he wasn't sure what kind of business sounded like this.
"Wuss," jeered Cartman.
"Ha," said Kyle. "You're just mad because Wendy called you that."
"Am not," retorted Cartman. "I don't give a crap what she thinks; she hates me no matter what I do. You're the real wuss around here."
"I am not," said Kyle.
"Huh," said Cartman, "oh, no? Prove it."
There was a silence.
"What are you talking about?" said Kyle.
"I said prove it. I am fucking sick of you, and taking horseshit from Robson, and the—the vomit. I don't care how many times you've stood up in front of a bunch of other Jews wearing a retarded little propeller beanie and reading from big Bounty rolls. You're still not a fuckin' man if you don't grow some."
Another silence.
"Braawwk, brawwk, brawkkk," added Cartman.
"Shut up, fatass," yelled Kyle, "it's none of your business."
"Fine," said Cartman, "there's more than one way of being a pussy; if you want to choose the undignified way, it's up to you." He opened the door and Stan looked up to see Cartman's bulk blocking the light from the doorway. "Stan," said Cartman, "face away from me, dude. I'm about to go on and I just had this jacket cleaned." He walked off towards the stage, and Stan heard the announcer saying, "And now, all the way from South Park, Colorado, here to help us celebrate Jesus' resurrection, it'sFaith +1!" The band started their usual intro: "You know, Jesus. . . "
Stan dropped his ginger ale and curled into a tighter ball. He didn't remember when he had last been this miserable. He had never liked Faith +1--the music alone made him feel sick--but for a while, it had been fun working with Kyle. He'd been so impressed with how smart and hip his friend had turned out to be. But with Wendy following them around and yelling at them, Cartman's bizarre mood swings, and Butters' jumpiness, the fun, what there was of it, was gone. As for Kyle—Kyle spent half his time worried about the business and the rest of his time worried about the ethical implications of what they were doing. It had been Butters who had insisted on getting Stan the medication and making him lie down. Stan wondered if Kyle even noticed how sick he was.
But he must have, because he was kneeling next to Stan on the canvas and pushing his hair back off his damp forehead.
"God, Stan," Stan heard him say, "you really look terrible."
Hearing that he looked terrible didn't make Stan feel much better. They sat there quietly for a moment. They could hear the next song Cartman had written:
Jesus is my Viagra,
Feel His almighty power;
Jesus is my Viagra,
Just give him half an hour.
Oh, glory, glory, give him praise,
Let him show you how the dead get raised!
Jesus is my Viagra,
Feel His almighty power.
"Man," said Kyle, "that stuff makes me want to barf, too. Move over." He flopped down on the canvas beside Stan, who giggled weakly.
"Listen, Stan," Kyle said hesitantly, "I feel—kinda bad about the way I've been treating you. I've been so worried about everything with Mom and Wendy, and the band, and even Cartman, that I've been sort of ignoring you, and I really didn't mean to do that."
"It's cool, dude," Stan said, feeling awkward. Kyle turned to face him, leaning on one elbow.
"No, it really isn't," he insisted. "Cartman—well, he's an asshole, but he's right. I've been a total wuss. I've been listening to Robson screaming and carrying on about gays and how evil they are and how they're destroying the institution of marriage—and I knew I ought to say something, but I was too gutless. I think," he said, "maybe I would have said something sooner if I hadn't been afraid people would say 'look at him, he's just saying that because it applies to him.' "
"Why would anyone say that?" Stan heard himself ask.
Kyle's mouth twisted up in a one-sided rueful smile.
"Probably because it's true," he said. "Remember when Garrison put us together in the eggs-periment? How she kept calling us the 'gay couple?' And the whole time I was trying to be the best egg dad I could be, mostly for the grade, and we got gay marriage legalized in Colorado. We did that together. We did that even though we didn't know that's what we were doing. Look, Stan," he said seriously, "we're both just kids, but when all that happened. . . ."
"You knew," Stan said slowly, "that you were, like, gay? That you wanted to marry another guy?"
"Not exactly," Kyle admitted. "All I knew was that I absolutely couldn't imagine being married to anyone but you. I know it's dumb," he added hastily, "but I had to tell you the truth. I should have said it much sooner, but like I said," he said bitterly, turning his head away, "I'm a wuss."
Stan only meant to stop Kyle from turning—his hand went up to Kyle's face without even thinking about it. But when Kyle turned his head back and looked at him again, a long, slow green gaze, he felt his stomach clench.
Oh, God, no, he thought. Please, if You exist, don't let me barf on Kyle. Not now.
But Kyle simply lay down on his chest, turning his cheek so it was against Stan's, and held him tightly. The huge cold snowball melted away, and his entire self unclenched, and he held Kyle back. Oh, God, was he actually crying? He was being a total pussy, but he couldn't seem to stop.
So when Kyle turned back his face, looking worried, it seemed perfectly reasonable that somebody started kissing somebody. Stan was a little vague about that part. It seemed kind of, well, gay. And this was his best friend, but his best friend was a guy, and guys didn't usually kiss each other on the mouth, much less cling to each other and run their hands through each other's hair and open their mouths and ---ooo.
He would worry about the implications later. Right now he knew that absolutely nothing, no one in the world, would ever take away his Super Best Friend Kyle, and that was all that mattered to him, right until he felt Kyle being pulled away, then empty, cold air. Then he felt himself being dragged up by the neck and shaken and opened his eyes to see Kyle being grabbed by the neck, too, and looked up to see the angry face of Fred Robson.
"Disgusting," Robson snarled.
As he was being dragged towards the brilliant lights onstage, Stan couldn't help but feel that it was a little rough that he was about to be outed in front of a crowd of thousands about thirty seconds after it had occurred to him that he was gay. He knew Butters would almost certainly be able to think of the bright side of this scenario, but at the moment, Stan had no idea what it was.
Robson actually rushed over to a microphone, still clutching Stan and Kyle, and yelled for the band to stop playing. And they did.
"Brothers and sisters," Robson said dramatically, "I was having a prayerful moment before I came on to be with you today, when I found this—" he shook Stan and Kyle again—"these boys, rolling around in a shocking act of carnality! On Easter Sunday!"
A few people in the crowd gasped, and Stan noticed that Kyle was turning a painful shade of red. His face was streaked with dust and trails of tears, probably Stan's, and what was admittedly saliva, and Stan figured the chances were that he didn't look so good himself.
"And what is more," fumed Robson, "these boys are here in connection with one of the bands on this very stage!"
Stan saw Cartman lean into his microphone and speak into it carefully.
"That would be us, asswipe."
Robson dropped Stan and Kyle.
"You admit to knowing these degenerates?"
Cartman looked thoughtful. "Why yes," Stan heard him say, "the fetching brunette is Stan, who is the biggest pussy I've ever met. Bad case of MIV," he added, "Multiple Ingrowing Vaginas. And the charming redhead, Kyle there, is a total queermo, plus he's Jewish, so he's definitely going straight to hell. But I've been standing at the same goddamned bus stop with them, freezing our balls off, since we started going to school together. I've always ripped on Kyle for being a Jew, and he rips on me for being big-boned, and I cannot wait to start ripping on them for being fags, but then, I've known them my entire life. What's your excuse, douchebag?"
"You don't care about this depravity?" thundered Robson.
Cartman lost it. "Of course I fucking don't! What do you think? It's Easter! Lighten up, asshole!" He wheeled around to the audience. "What about you?" he screamed. "Did you come to listen to this bullcrap?"
Someone up in the cheap seats yelled, "Heck, no!"
"You're goddamned right you didn't!" yelled Cartman. "You gotta have something to do on Easter between the chocolate bunnies and the ham! Listen," he added, "I'm telling you, Jesus does not give a shit. And even if he did, I sure don't. What's the matter with you people? Why don't you mind your own fucking business once in a while?"
This was it, Stan thought: Cartman was finally going off his rocker.
"So the boys and I," Cartman continued, "have put together a little song about minding your own fucking business. HIT IT!"
His hands crashed down on the keyboards, flashing and sliding with demonic energy, and Stan suddenly knew what he'd been practicing for months.
If I should take a notion, Cartman sang,
To jump into the ocean,
'Taint nobody's bizness if I do, do-do-do.
Rather than persecute me
Choose that you would shoot me
'Cause 'taint nobody's bizness if I do.
You can talk, you can rave,
You can say awful things about me,
I don't care what you say,
Go on and try me if you doubt me.
So if I go to church on Sunday,
And tear it down on Monday,
'Taint nobody's bizness if I do!
To Stan's surprise, Cartman wasn't the only one who had leapt into the song with enthusiasm. Token was playing some impressive riffs on the bass. Butters, still swaddled in Kenny's parka, was slamming the hell out of the drums—he must have been getting rid of a lot of pent-up anxiety, Stan thought. The Second Line Brass Band jumped in, blowing the roof off with jazz trumpet and sax.
BLAM BLAM BLAM WHACK! Butters took four on the drums. He looked like an orange blur.
So if I go to church on Sunday, Cartman howled over the blaring ensemble,
And tear it down on Monday,
'Taint nobody's bizness if I do! Wham wham wham.
The crowd didn't know what to do with this for a minute, but some of them clearly appreciated the energy. They began to applaud. Robson raced over to Cartman's microphone and grabbed it out of his hand.
"The Devil's music played in support of the Devil himself on the most sacred day of the year!" he screamed.
"Oh, shut the fuck up," snarled Cartman, grabbing his mike back. "Why are you so goddamned wound up about gay marriage anyway? I'll tell you why," he said, turning to the audience, "it's because my idiot third grade teacher, Mrs. Garrison, has sand in her vagina about the whole thing, because her boyfriend dumped her so he could marry a guy. And you're worked up about it because she's worked up about it, and you're banging her, aren't you? Too bad she didn't mention that that fancy new vagina of hers is a masterpiece of surgical know-how, or did you know that already?"
Stan saw Robson's hand curl around a piece of pipe that someone had left on the stage. This time, he thought, Cartman wouldn't be brainwashed. Cartman wasn't going to have any brains left at all.
"Pretty goddamned ironic, if you ask me," jeered Cartman, "unless, of course, you like humping a girl who used to be a guy . . . "
All at once, Stan saw the rafters high above the stage brilliantly illuminated. There, surrounded by a blaze of golden and pink fireworks, stood Kenny, holding onto a long electrical cord. He was poised like the hero of a pirate movie on the topmast of a ship, and incongruously, he was still wearing Butters' Hello Kitty hoodie.
"Ya-hey!" yelled Kenny, and swooped down from the rafters in a long, dramatic plunge. He crashed through the crates of doves, who flew madly out at the audience, kept going, and landed, feet first, right on Robson's crotch, somersaulted about four or five times, and then flipped over onto his back, alarmingly still.
"BUTTERS!! NOOOOO!!!!" wailed about two thousand girls.
Cartman didn't pause to look at Kenny. He walked over to Robson, who was writhing around on the stage, and looked down at him.
"Oh, yes," he said cheerfully. "Go with Christ, brah."
The next hour was chaos. The first priority was Kenny, who was alive, but just barely. Wendy had pushed her way backstage and leaned over Kenny with the rest of them.
"Kenny," she said fervently, holding his hand, "that was the bravest thing I've ever seen. You're a hero." She bent down and kissed him. Kenny squeezed his eyes a little tighter and Stan saw a flash of his old angelic smile.
Perv, Stan thought. Grabbing a last one on his way to the cemetery.
Cartman scowled.
Butters pulled Wendy away and took Kenny's hand. "C'mon, Kenny," he said. "I'll g-go with ya to the hospital. You're gu-gonna be ok." He turned to Stan and Kyle. "I gotta go now, f-fellas. I'm gonna stick around with Kenny an' maybe the Easter Bunny'll remember me next year. Th-Thanks for settin' up that fund an' the children's home, Kyle. I feel like m-maybe we done somethin' useful, but I'm su-sure glad we c'n stop." He started to follow the paramedics who were carrying Kenny away.
"Butters," Stan said, "what about your fans?"
"Oh," Butters said casually, "they prob'ly think I'm dead, and I gu-guess I'll just let 'em think that. After all," he added, "it ain't like I never done that before." He winked at them mischievously, pulled Kenny's hood tight around his face, and walked away.
Token walked up to them with the band from New Orleans.
"Guys," he said awkwardly, "I guess I'm going, too. These guys say they think I'm—"
"One hell of a musician," said the trumpet player. "Uncle Wynton and Uncle Brandon think so too."
Kyle blinked. "Uncle Wynton?" he said. "As in Wynton Marsalis?"
"Um, yeah," said Token. "They want to give me a chance to play with some real musicians. . . I mean," he said hurriedly—
"We know," said Kyle.
"So, I'll be talking to my parents, and the Marsalis brothers are going to help me find a real teacher, and I'm going to be going down to New Orleans a lot," finished Token. "Because it turns out I really love music. It's Christian rock music I can't stand."
Token left in a little knot of his new friends, looking like he'd found a new true love.
"Don't tell me this was for nothing," begged Cartman, "because this was total crap to go through. Please tell me we made some decent money."
"Oh, yes," said Kyle. "We did. Token's dad put it into his trust fund, and it's a good thing we did make so much, because Kenny will probably need it for his medical bills. Afterwards, there's still plenty to make things much nicer for him at home, and it's all tied up so his parents can't blow it on trucks and booze. And Ike will get through medical school if he wants to. Thanks to Faith +1."
"So where's my money?" demanded Cartman.
"You know, Cartman," said Kyle, "for a guy who's already signed away his kidney, you're still really careless about reading the fine print." Cartman froze. "I put some of it into an Educational Savings Account so you can go to college, assuming your grades pick up, of course. If not, you can get hold of that when you're 21. As for the rest of it, I talked to Butters. He says that he'll be very happy to change the name of his fund to the Cartman and Stotch Foundation for Abused and Neglected Children. Especially since," Kyle added, "you're going to be paying for half of it."
Cartman opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
"Oh yes," Kyle said, "I forgot to tell you. The album went platinum this morning. Here's your ten dollars."
Cartman snatched the bill away from him and walked away up into the arena, muttering something about the infernal regions.
"That was pretty sneaky, putting Cartman's money into Butters' fund," said Stan, " and even naming it after him."
"Well," said Kyle thoughtfully, "maybe naming a fund for abused and neglected children after Butters and old Fatass makes a certain kind of sense, although I don't know if either of them will ever understand that. Cartman probably wants to kill me, but I think it's for the best. Anyway," he said, turning to Stan and smiling, "I really owe him a lot."
Stan slipped his hand into his Super Best Friend's and they walked away, heads close together, already a happy old retired couple.
The Hollywood Bowl is one of the most exciting places in the world when it's full and ready for a concert. When it's empty, it's one of the most eerie and lonely places you can imagine.
Eric Cartman sat high up in the cheap seats. From here you could see down the hill and across the Hollywood Freeway. You could see the Hollywood sign, and not far away, a huge white cross. Christianity and show business. Boy, had they ever fucked him over. He sighed. Goodbye, fame, goodbye, ten million dollars, hello ungrateful little snotboxes, hello obscurity. Shit.
He turned around to see Wendy Testaburger standing next to him. He wanted to yell at her, but he was all out of the energy to do it with.
"So, my career is over," he said. "I self-destructed on stage in front of several thousand people, and I've got no money. Satisfied, bitch? Or were you planning to come over and finish me off?"
Wendy sat down next to him. He hadn't asked her to.
"What with?" she asked. "I haven't got a wooden stake with me."
"Very funny," he snarled. "I know no one believes this, but I'm all too goddamn human."
"Yeah," she said. "I know."
A wave of frustration hit him.
"So what the hell do you want from me?" he shouted, waving his hands in the air. "You want to drag me off and have me fixed? Have me sit up, fetch, roll over and play dead? I'm supposed to carry around a bunch of fruity signs and hand out flyers and join fucking Greenpeace? No way," he said. "No goddamned way."
"Good," she said.
"----What?"
"I said, good. If I wanted you to do that, I'd say so. And I don't. It would be boring. I just wanted them to leave poor Stan and Kyle alone."
"Stan and Kyle?" said Cartman, turning to her in surprise. "You knew they were gay?"
"Of course," she said. "Didn't you?"
"Well, yeah," he said, "but I've always figured that. You used to go out with Stan."
"Uh-huh," she said. "Anyway, that's all worked out."
"All that getting my ass kicked," he grumbled, "and it was for nothing."
She paused a moment. "You know," she said, "I was really worried about you."
Something in his chest leapt up, eager and bright-eyed and hopeful. He had to whack it with a stick until it gave in and ran away with its tail between its legs. "Oh, ha, ha," he said, "very funny, ho."
"No, I mean it," she insisted. "Robson looked pretty scary to me. I didn't like the way he kept whacking you on the head. Even your head can't take that much," she said, and she pulled it down, stroking the brown hair and looking for dents and contusions.
"Wendy," he sighed, "I said this before. You're worried about my head; well, quit fucking with it. Just leave me alone, or. . . "
"Or what?" she asked.
"Or, well. . . don't, " he finished lamely, trying not to meet her eyes as she pulled his face around.
Evidently, she didn't want to, he thought, as she clamped her lips to his and blew away what was left of his brain.
"So," she said later, when they were sitting looking at the Hollywood sign with their arms around each other, "I guess you're retired now."
He snorted. "Yeah, I guess," he said. "It was a miracle to bring Faith +1 back once: even Jesus couldn't do it a second time."
"Hmm," she said, squeezing him around the bulge in the middle, "are you going to miss writing all those songs about Jesus?"
"Jesus?" he said, and squeezed her back. "Fuck Jesus," he said contentedly.
The End.
Wendy is quoting from John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath.
"'Taint Nobody's Bizness If I Do" is by Clarence Williams and it's been covered by everybody from Bessie Smith to Lady Day, but here it's inspired by the immortal Thomas "Fats" Waller.