Prohibited goods were always available, if you knew where to look. How hard it was to obtain them naturally depended heavily on the good in question. The one currently contained in Stan's bag had only been marginally harder to obtain than chocolates in a candy store. His fake I. wasn't great; had the store clerk peered at it for any longer than a millisecond, he might have had second thoughts about handing over a bottle of vodka. But luckily for Stan, the clerk had important jobs to do, such as texting his friends about how unbelievably boring his life was, and so, five years underage, he got the good.

"Did you get it?" Cartman demanded the moment Stan opened the door. "Did you, did you, did you?"

"I got it, fatass," Stan informed him, plonking down on the sofa next to Kyle before opening his bag. "No trouble. You got anything to mix it with?"

"Mixers are for pussies! Watch this!" Cartman grabbed the bottle and took a swig. He choked and pulled a face. "I'll go get the coke. This is clearly lame vodka."

"The clerk didn't catch on that the ID was fake?" Kyle asked, the relief clear in his voice.

"Nah. I think he wanted to get back to rearranging the top shelf magazines."

"That's what I would do," Kenny interrupted, flicking through a magazine of that type on the floor. "Wow, this girl's boobs are HOT!"

"We know, Kenny," said Kyle.

"I brought the coke, you guys!" Cartman had returned, laden down with soda and glasses. "So let's play a drinking game!"

"Like what?" Kyle asked, taking a glass and preparing his and Stan's drinks.

"Liiiike, we could watch a movie, and drink anytime something special happens!"

"Like what?" Stan asked, helping himself to his drink. He coughed. "Dude, this stuff is strong!"

"Like we could watch Schindler's List, and drink everytime something bad happens to a Jew!"

"Shut up, Cartman, you fat piece of shit!"

"Fine, if you wanna be boring, we could watch Star Wars and drink everytime we see a stormtrooper! Or everytime someone gets shot! Or both!"

"We'll be comatose before it's an hour in!" said Stan.

"Stop being a pussy and learn to drink!"

Halfway through A New Hope, Cartman had failed himself. He was slouched over in a corner, snoring gently. Kenny too had failed to resist the fatigue-inducing effects of alcohol and was passed out on the floor. Stan and Kyle were hardly in better conditions, but at least they were conscious. They were not, however, paying the slightest bit of attention to the film that was playing.

"No, you're Chewbacca," Kyle insisted, prodding Stan in the chest with more force than he'd intended. "'Cause...'cause...you're hairier."

"What? Looked at your hair in the mirror lately?" countered Stan, gesticulating wildly and spilling most of his drink in the process. "You've got volume, dude."

"Yeah, well, you...you're inarticulate. Like a wookiee."

"How can you say inar- inat- that word at a time like this?"

"'Cause I'm not a wookiee!" said Kyle triumphantly.

"Well, I can kiss! Ask Wendy! Wookiees can't kiss!"

"How'd you know?"

"Has Chewbacca ever kissed anyone?"

"Uh. How should I know?"

"There! I'm Han Solo and youuu're just a wookiee!"

"I can kiss!" Kyle grabbed Stan and kissed him hard on the lips. Stan broke away, laughing.

"Wookiee kiss, wookiee kiss!"

"What? No way!"

"That's how a wookiee would kiss! You have to be less...thingy. More like this." Stan pulled Kyle close and kissed him gently.

"Like this?" Kyle tried again, letting his lips rest gently on Stan's.

"You need some pressure." Kyle tried again. Stan's tongue slipped into his mouth and he jerked back, shocked.

"What the hell were you doing?" asked Kyle, shrinking back to the corner of the sofa.

"Teaching you! Now come back here, wookiee!"

"I'm not a wookiee!" Kyle climbed on top of Stan, pinned him down onto the sofa and kissed him once more, this time taking the initiative in tongue action. Stan wrapped his arms around him and together they laid, kissing and teasing until sleep finally took hold of them.

Ice cold water woke them from their stupor. Both jumped from their positions, body parts still entangled, and managed to smack their already aching heads together.

"Ow! What the hell, Cartman?" Kyle demanded, rubbing the stinging spot on his head.

"You two were being fags on my sofa!" Cartman barked, throwing another bucked of water onto them. "Stop fagging up the place!"

"We weren't being fags!" said Stan, falling back onto the sofa.

"The Jew was lying on you! Don't lie to me!"

"We had been wrestling," said Kyle, managing to think between the heavy thumps in his head. "And we just passed out like that."

Cartman glared at them both, but, being worse for wear himself, was content to merely throw his third and final bucket of water over them before waddling off elsewhere.

"Jesus, my head's killing me," Stan moaned. "How much did we drink?"

"No idea, but that bottle is empty now. I need an aspirin."

"Should we go home for them?"

Kyle laughed with little mirth. "I'm sure my mom would love to give me hangover cures."

"Good point. Let's just die here a bit longer." They lazed on the sofa, both occasionally groaning about how they were in agony. Both were struggling to comprehend the previous night's events. The difficulty of understanding that they had kissed their best friend, who was another guy, which brought up all kinds of questions, would be hard enough to tackle at any point. At a time when comprehending how to move from the sofa was a mammoth intellectual challenge, it was impossible. Their thoughts went around in unchanging circles. I kissed my best friend. Does he remember? I kissed him, oh shit, I kissed him. Maybe he won't remember. I kissed him! Their painful thought processes were interrupted by a damp Cartman's reappearance, dressed in only a towel.

"Why haven't you fags gone home? Don't have sex on my sofa!" he said.

"We're in pain. Haven't you got any aspirin?" said Stan.

"It's not my fault you're hurting because of anal sex!"

"We didn't have sex, Cartman, now get us some aspirin. And where's Kenny?" snapped Kyle.

"Puking in the toilet. Or cleaning up the puke. He keeps switching between the two. And I'll give you aspirin if...you tell me what you fags were doing on my sofa!"

"We told you, Cartman, we were wrestling. Can we have aspirin now?" said Stan.

"Hmmm...no. You can have aspirin after Kyle sucks my cock!"

"What? No way am I doing that!"

"What's wrong with my cock? It'll taste just as good as Stan's, Kyle, you cock-hungry Jew!"

"That's it, I'm going home!" Kyle announced, hopping off the sofa.

"Same here. See you later, douche." Stan followed Kyle out of the house. They stumbled along together, Kyle groaning especially loudly.

"Dude, you cannot go home like this," said Stan. "Your mom'll murder you. Wanna come die at mine?"

"How could I resist an offer like that?"