[Authors' notes: This is a co-written fic by my partner and myself. This is going to be a long, multi-chapter fic. We thank you for reading! You can find us on tumblr at middleparks and feraldays.]

17:05:12 Nov 11 2012

Craig takes the stairs down to Token's basement studio two at a time without bothering to turn on the light. He knows how many stairs there are after years of friendship and if he lets his right hand skate down the railing on the wall, he'll know exactly where the flight turns. His left hand is curled loosely around his camera so when he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he has to push the thick black-out curtain aside with his shoulder.

Token's silhouette is back lit from the blue glow of his double monitor spread. The towers of equipment boxes and thousands of DVD cases that line the walls seem to be pulsating as Token scrolls backwards through the footage on one screen as the other monitor plays the same few clips forward. His laptop is open off to the side, quietly humming a song Craig has never heard. Craig leans over his friend to plug his camera into the laptop so he can upload the last week's footage.

With one tap on the keyboard, Token pauses all three screens. With a drag of his finger across the screen of his phone, the lights in the basement rise.

"Okay," he smiles at Craig. "Let me see it."

Craig unbuttons his shirt, letting it fall off his shoulders so he can peel back the rectangle of plastic wrap and medical tape that spans the width of his chest. He reveals a new tattoo, the skin beneath still swollen, the needle having driven into it an hour before. Crisp black and grey lines form the outline of a large moth, its wings spread wide across Craig's chest. Craig looks down at the art from above, still amazed with the level of detail the artist was able to put in.

"It's beautiful. How much did this one cost?"

"Four paychecks," Craig sighs. "Totally worth it."

"What number is this?"

"Eighteen."

"You're a walking piece of art, Craig Tucker."

Craig peels the rest of the plastic off and tosses it in the garbage, letting his shirt fall to the ground. He is too lazy to cross the room for another chair, and instead sits down on the floor in just his jeans.

"Why a moth?"

"I don't know," Craig answers. "I wanted something black and grey and something symmetrical, so why not?"

"Can't argue that."

"When are you going to get a tattoo?" Craig prods.

"We've had this conversation before. Never. The only thing I would ever even consider is something like your knuckles."

Craig extends both of his hands, the block letters across his eight fingers read FUCK and YOU, with the outline of a heart filling his left pinky. Beneath the obscenity on his right hand is the tattoo he knows Token is referring to, a solid black symbol on the top knuckle of each finger, mirroring the play, pause, fast forward and rewind buttons seen on the side of his camera.

"But even then," Token continues, "one day, when we're famous filmmakers and we get in a petty argument and refuse to work together, then we'll have the same goddamn tattoo and everyone will think we're gay."

They both laugh and Craig sharply withdraws his hands. The video from Craig's camera loads onto the screen, popping up over the paused clips Token was watching.

"It's not much," Craig says, nodding toward the screens, "I've been working my ass off at PetSteps and Kyle doesn't let me have my camera."

Token transfers the footage that Craig uploaded on to the desktop computers, where he dumps it into a folder titled "Thanksgiving 2012." They're two weeks out from Token's annual Thanksgiving-eve party. Token and Craig first threw this party when they were juniors in high school. A casual hobby for film evolved into a true passion for both of them and after years of collecting footage of friends, they began uploading particularly embarrassing or memorable moments on YouTube. They loved the response they would get, so the friends started saving the best clips for November, editing them into thirty minutes of footage that tells the story of the prior year. A five year tradition, Craig and Token are always looking to improve upon their work. The Thanksgiving party isn't the biggest get together of the year, but it's been about three months since everyone has last seen each other, and Craig is sure they're all eager to catch up.

"How is the film coming?"

Token rolls his eyes from the screen to Craig on the floor. "More or less finished. I've compiled some good stuff, but it doesn't feel like enough."

"What's wrong with it now? We still have some time, we can go to a party tonight."

"I have to head back to school after dinner with my parents, but that's not it, not totally." Token stands up and stretches, Craig watches his orange and purple plaid shirt ride up over his flat stomach. "I keep thinking about South Park. Boulder is dull." Craig raises his eyebrows expectantly, but Token ignores him. "I like it, but it's too..." Token waves a hand around, "Alive. Boulder is more energetic than I'm used to, if that makes any sense." Craig shrugs. He would have never gone to college, so now that Token is complaining about the boredom of a busy town, Craig wants to say, "I told you so."

"Huh," is what comes out instead.

Token drops to the floor across from Craig, letting the video transfer completely. "I want to make a real movie. About South Park. I have a thesis that I have to prepare for and I want it to be about our hometown."

"That's the best you can do?" Craig asks, eyeing his friend. Token makes direct eye contact through his glasses and Craig grabs for his phone, scrolling through the article he was reading earlier on the prospective films for the Telluride Film Festival.

"South Park is dead, man. I can't imagine a better subject." Token reaches up to the desk when the chiming from the speakers indicates that the footage has loaded onto the computers. He pulls the camera down and turns it over in his hands. Craig lowers his phone to watch him. Token's square face is framed by his big, natural hair, his eyes hidden by the thick dark rim of his glasses, glasses that only Craig knows are fake.

"How long have you had this?"

"Sophomore year of high school. It was basically my entire paycheck from those two months I worked at Wing Street."

Token hums thoughtfully and stands, walking over to his chaotic organized pile of equipment and picks up a black bag Craig has never seen before. He hands it to Craig. "I'm only here on the weekends, you'll get much better footage than I will."

Craig's inked hands unzip the thick bag and reach in to lift out a black Canon XF100 camcorder. He stares at it. The plastic is sleek and matte, and lens is huge, and when he holds it up to his face, there are a wide range of buttons to hit and dials to turn. It's nothing like his shiny silver off-brand camera. Craig flips open the screen and shuts it again. He looks up at Token. "You're fucking me."

His best friend laughs. "It's on loan from the film department. They'll have my head if anything happens to it, but I want you to use it. You'll get better footage than I will. Just don't leave it anywhere, keep it with you at all times."

Craig's gaze slides down to study the camera, but Token grabs his hat and yanks it off his head, making Craig look back up at him.

"Are you listening, asshole?"

Craig rolls his eyes. "I get it, dude. Thanks."

Token nods once, his lips pressed together in the same way they always are whenever Token is observing the people around him. "Do me a favor, and email me footage at the end of each day, then I can edit shit at school and maybe I won't be so bored all the time."

"My computer can't handle this kind of equipment," Craig tells him. He gestures towards his camera, where it sits on Token's desk, looking pathetic and outdated. "It's older than that little shit."

"It'll upload through USB. You won't be able to view the files, but they'll import. Just compress them and email them to me."

Craig shrugs, his hand sliding eagerly under the neoprene strap on its side. He feels the weight of thousands of dollars in his right hand. His thumb traces over a few of the buttons, mapping its way to the power switch and the camera vibrates against his palm as it hums to life.

"Sure."

He ignores the weight of Token's gaze on him as he hits record and lifts the viewfinder to his eye.

03:14:59 Nov 12 2012

Craig Tucker stares into the lens of the video camera. He's been eyeing the fancy machinery all night, sitting at his desk and turning his old faithful over in his hands. His laptop gave up trying to show him Reddit and fell asleep. The new camera on the far side of his desk tries to entice him, draw him in, but he is avoiding it, instead drawing out the goodbye for a hiatus between himself and Old Faithful. He knows after using the CU-Boulder one, he'd need to spend a few paychecks on a new camera for himself. At three in the morning, he powers down his prized possession and closes it into his desk drawer. He picks up the loaned camera and turns it on, hitting record and spinning it around to aim at him.

Craig hasn't been around much expensive equipment, save for at Token's house. His own family is poor, but over the years he's built up a resistance of how much it can bother him. Once upon a time fat little Eric Cartman pointed a stubby finger at him and said he is the poorest kid in school, and Craig went home and reevaluated the world around him. He knew Token was better off, but it was strange to contextualize his reality on a grander scale. When Craig was in his sophomore year of high school he learned if he wanted anything of his own, he had to get a job. He's been employed at one place or another for the past six years, and all he has to show for it is an old laptop, an iPhone, a shitty camera, and eighteen expensive tattoos.

He sets the CU Boulder camera down on the desk and stares into it. He can't see himself, but he feels as though the camera can see him. They're getting to know each other. It's an introduction for the strangest of friends, and Craig can only gaze into the glass for so long before he hits 'stop' and flicks off the light, trudging to his bed and collapsing in it.

06:45:01 Nov 12 2012

Craig rolls onto his stomach when his alarm goes off. He drags the blankets up over his head and tries to tune out the ringing alarm, but it only lasts a few moments before he groans and sits up. He feels the punch of three hours of sleep, but tries to push past it. He'll be back in bed soon enough. It's the same routine every day.

He rubs his eyes and scratches his scalp through his thick hair before standing and pulling a sweatshirt on and slips into the nearest pair of Wall Mart imitation Vans on his floor. He wades through a room that seems only to be clean because it doesn't have much in it: a desk, a bed, a bean bag chair, a bookshelf filled mostly with movies and notebooks with screenplays or at least the ideas for them, and two cages stacked on top of each other where Gideon and Lenora live, beside it a large rodent playground. He takes a few steps into the hallway before pausing. Craig backtracks into his bedroom and looks at at the Canon sitting on his desk. Token told him never to leave it anywhere, and if he wants a good look at life in South Park, he may as well start with the butt crack of dawn.

The camera powers on in his hand and he walks out of his room and down the stairs to the kitchen where his mother and sister are sitting and eating breakfast while his father makes himself a cup of coffee. Craig stops in the doorway. The kitchen cramped, but clean. There isn't a lot of space in their house, but they don't have a lot of stuff anyway. The microwave is also a shelf for the condiments since there is no pantry but just a few overhead cabinets that are neatly filled with food, plates, and cups. The fridge doesn't have a lot in it. The walls are mostly bare of art. The curtains are thick, heavy, and plain; they are practical, not beautiful. The light is coming into the kitchen from the wrong angle, but Craig focuses the image and films his family eating around the small table. His sister is the first to notice.

"The fuck are you doing?"

"Watch your language, Savannah." Their father chastises. "Craig, what are you doing?"

Thomas Tucker is a large man, tall and broad and balding. A sparse puff of red hair sits above his otherwise serious face. He doesn't have much to say that isn't condescending, which works perfectly with his stoic wife. She is strong and tall and plain, and sometimes she seems more like a nanny than what movies tell him mothers are supposed to be. Together they play a terrible good cop, bad cop when the need arises. They're both kind of shitty cops. Savannah has skated by unaffected. Craig would like to think he has done the same.

"What are you going to do with that?" Savannah asks suspiciously, setting down her spoon and fixing him with a studying gaze which Craig ignores. He doesn't lower his camera. Instead, it zeroes in on her pale face and strawberry blonde hair, as pin-straight and plain as their mother's. She frowns like their father does, with her mouth in a bow when something is displeasing. They're all light and Irish and beautiful, which Craig most certainly is not.

"It's almost seven," He tells his sister and she slides out of her chair and drops her bowl in the sink. Craig turns and walks to the front door. He spins the camera on his dark face and says blandly, "I suspect I'm adopted."

The wind is whipping outside, flakes of fresh snow flying off the roof in the wind and pelting his exposed legs. He should have put pants on over his boxers. Craig squints as he walks down the footpath to his car in the driveway. He makes sure to pan the camera around. Yesterday the world was muddy grey as the dirt caught up to the snow, but last night brought a new layer to cover the mess. He is grateful it is not enough to require a shoveling. On mornings like these, South Park almost looks like a normal town. It looks clean and neat, and he can ignore the old, creaking buildings and half finished home projects left on people's lawns in favor of the illusion of an ethereal world. On mornings like these, Craig feels like he's in another body.

He jams the key into the lock on the door and turns slow and firm, but not too hard lest it break off again. Last time he had to snake an extension cord and his sister's hairdryer outside and warm the frozen handle as he picks the lock, which has happened on two different occasions. He slams the door shut behind him and reaches across to unlock the passenger door after he turns the engine over and blasts the heat in the white decades-old Honda Civic. Craig slumps in his seat to avoid his head hitting the ceiling of the car, and points the camera at the green front door of his tan house. The heat is fast, one of the only good things about this hand-me-down from his father. His dad bought the car when he was trying to impress Craig's future mother, and when Craig turned seventeen, Thomas Tucker decided it was time for him to buy himself a new car and give his Ole Reliable to his son. Craig doesn't think his dad's used 2002 Toyota Camry is much better, but at least he got a free car out of it.

His pack of cigarettes sit untouched in the cup holder. His hands are too occupied with the video camera for him to consider their twitching need to hold something warm.

The front door opens and with a few quick, careful steps, Savannah throws herself into the car. "Drive. And put that thing away. Are you filming me?"

Craig turns off the camera and sets it on the back seat. He flips on the radio to fill the space. Savannah says nothing as Craig drives her the ten minutes into the neighboring town to Park County's shared high school. The bus stop is nearby, but it's a cold walk, and one of the conditions Craig was forced to adhere to when given the car was that he would also tote his sister around when she needed it. Of course, she deemed every morning and most afternoons to and from school as such necessary situations, and because she's seventeen and perfect, their parents approved.

Savannah and Craig don't talk much, which Craig is grateful for. She's not the worst sibling in the world, but she's still not all that interesting. He hears enough of her crap when she occasionally makes him drive a friend or two home with her or when he has the terrible misfortune of joining his family for dinner. Craig doesn't have much to say either, so their silent arrangement works out. Overall, he kind of likes his sister. She isn't the worst thing, and Craig would maybe consider that as being a good sibling relationship, if ever such a thing existed.

"Pick me up at 3," she says, unbuckling her seatbelt and climbing out of the car almost before Craig has made a complete stop. She is gone in an instant, hurrying over to the bandroom with her flute case in hand.

The young boy in the car in front of him is taking his sweet time gathering up a large poster board and an instrument case, so Craig reaches into the back of the car and grabs the camera, turning it on and hitting record when it chimes to life. Craig sets the camera on the dashboard facing the world and fixes it in place just as the car in front of his releases their brakes. He heads home slowly, letting the camera take in the short drive through Middle Park as it transforms back into South Park in the early morning. All the traffic is to and from the schools. The town is isolated and most people don't commute out of it for work, save for a few people who work in Middle Park and North Park. At seven in the morning, South Park is empty except for the buzzing early crowd at the high school.

Craig has struggled with the car's sound system. He spent a paycheck or two getting it fixed from the mess it used to be, which also allowed him to get a scratchy CD drive that ruins all of his burned discs after a few plays. It has a rough life, so Craig lets it lie. For the past few months he hasn't had to do much driving anyway, but when he does he pushes his thoughts into film ideas. At least that stuff is safe to think about. Today, Craig thinks about his hometown on camera and what Token's viewers will think when they see the walking corpse of South Park.

He sails down the main street, where the post office and Tom's Rhinoplasty sit silently in the white morning, and up Sierra Madre with a left onto Avenue de Los Mexicanos, where his house sits near the end of the long block. Craig slowly turns up the driveway and parks. His parents' cars are gone, as always. It seems like no one commutes in South Park except his parents. His mother drives all the way up to North Park for her accounting job and his father drives halfway to Denver to manage another small town's post office. Craig locks the car behind him and pans the camera around his front lawn as he approaches the door.

Careful with the key, he enters his house and shuts the cold out. Craig sheds his sneakers as he climbs the stairs and hides himself in his room. He debates setting the camera on the dresser, but turns it off instead and plugs it into the charger waiting on his desk.

He draws his curtains and crawls into bed, pulling the thick layers of blankets over his shoulders and falling back to sleep.

18:32:13 Nov 14 2012

Craig barely bothers to make eye contact with Kyle when he pokes his head around the cat shelves where Kyle is talking to a customer. He lifts up an open palm to silently say he's taking his ten minute break.

Kyle doesn't respond, which Craig thanks himself for. He's been working on the art of avoiding Kyle Broflovski since he began working at PetSteps. One of his strategies is signaling to Kyle only if he's with a customer. Kyle wouldn't dare sully the store's reputation to correct or engage Craig. This way, no one can warn him not to tack an extra five minutes onto his break.

Armed with the camera he grabbed from his locker before heading out, Craig slips out the door, letting the bells sing of his absence. Once outside, Caig immediately lights a cigarette and inhales. He powers on his camera and adjusts the light settings to accommodate the suburbian darkness. Located on Highway 9, PetSteps neighbors a few other businesses and a handful of vacant lots. It takes just a few minutes of walking to pass the mostly empty parking lot his car is sitting in and behind the ruins of a Blockbuster, Craig sweeps his camera in a wide arc to take in the poorly maintained fireroad that crawls into the mountains. South Park hasn't had a wildfire since before Craig was born and it's always a shock to see the unfamiliar sight of a fire truck doing a practice drill up these steep, barely paved slopes. As long as he's known South Park, their side of the Rockies has been the wet one, seeing frequent snowfall and casual flooding the Spring.

More than familiar with the climate in his town, Craig tests the surface with the heel of his Docs just like he would back in highschool when he would come here with Token, Clyde and three empty pizza boxes they would swindle from the Whistlin' Willy's down the road. The sole of his shoe slides easily over the frozen surface and Craig smiles, letting the camera travel up the slope as he recalls the winter they spent at a solid ten. Craig was so stoned the first time he tried to surf that pizza box to the bottom of the hill that he hardly felt it when he broke his arm.

Even now, without his judgement impaired by cannabis, Craig is inspired to attempt to scale the fireroad, and he gets a running start on the salted lot below before he plants his foot on the slickness in front of him. He makes it three strides up the slope until his feet slide out from beneath him. Craig rolls to protect the Canon as he slams the black ice back first. With the wind knocked out of him, Craig remembers laying here, his arm twisted behind him, and Token calling 911 while Clyde cried, convinced they were going to be arrested and expelled and he can hear the words from Clyde's lips as if his best friend were still here in Colorado with him.

"They'll put us in separate schools. We'll never see each other again!"

Of course, none of that happened. None of their parents wanted to truly address the issue of teenaged drug use. Maybe they were too out of touch to realize it could be a problem for their kids, not just the ones they see on the fear-mongering news reports. Maybe they were still young enough to remember being teens themselves, and forgave their sons for finding false entertainment in such a boring town. Whatever it was, the only consequence the boys had to show of that day was the cast on Craig's left arm- the one that they took a pack of sharpies to the following night, shapes and colors inspired by a shared bottle of Grape Robitussin.

Craig misses Clyde.

The ice starts to melt with the heat of Craig's body pressed against it, and he regrets not pulling off his work shirt before pulling on his hoodie. He groans, sitting up and leaning his eye into the viewfinder, studying his jeans and his boots before letting the frame pan out to view the road. A few cars are speeding down the path, but slow as they rubber neck to take in the odd site of a grungy young adult and an expensive camera spending time together in a vacant lot. Craig gives them the finger, making sure the Canon captures the scene. For a moment, he feels the fiery burn of laughter in his gut, muscle memory from when he and Token and Clyde would spend their weekends intoxicated and filming themselves endangering their lives, but it is numbed away with the wet chill soaking into his underwear and Craig spits out the sour taste of fond memories.

Reluctantly, Craig rises and finds his half smoked cigarette laying in the snow beside where he fell. Tucking the camera in the crook of his elbow, Craig relights and breathes deeply. His phone barks like a dog from his pocket, the individualized text tone alerting him that Kyle has noticed he's gone over on his ten minute break and is requesting him back in the store. Craig holds the Canon from the lesser used handle along its topside, letting the camera swing gently with the motion of his body walking back towards the store. It gets the opportunity to film the footsteps Craig left on their way out, flying over them back towards their origin. He tosses his butt into the brush on the side of the highway before pushing open the door to PetSteps.

Kyle is always oranger when he's angry, a ball of contrasting heat in this cold state, looking ridiculous wrapped in the purple of his PetSteps uniform. Craig lifts the camera so he can look through the eyepiece at his angry superior and not directly at the face that stands just a few feet in front of him.

"Great," Kyle sighs. "You're soaked- what did you do, lay in the snow?"

Craig shrugs, keeping silent while he knows the camera could capture his voice.

"Go clean cages until you're dry. Don't let any customers see you. And camera off, Craig."

21:01:34 Nov 14 2012

Back to the wall so that his laptop screen points away from the door, Token unzips the files Craig has sent him from the last two days. His roommate is elusive and rarely spends the night in their shared dorm, but Token learned pretty quickly to not risk having Craig's footage open on his screen, especially when he has his headphones over his ears and slung around the back of his neck. The last thing Token needs is his Boulder friends snooping around his projects.

His fingers play the trackpad, cautious not to waste time skimming through mundane footage but careful not to skip anything that may be important. Routine, routine, Craig rises to take his sister to school, returns home to an empty house where he sleeps or stares at the internet before either picking his sister back up or going into work. For the first few hours of the first day Craig had his loaned camera, scenes would cut frequently, but it seems Craig has gotten lazy. They're not paying for the camera; may as well let it run.

The camera hovers at eye level as Craig drags his feet upstairs. He sets it down on his desk and spins it to face his bed. Craig is in frame for the first time since the footage began and Token watches as he holds lingering eye contact. Token can see that Craig needs to shave, and probably shower. He may even be contemplating it, as he removes every piece of his clothing. Despite being Craig's best friend, Token has spent little time in the Tucker's house and he is not sure if Craig is looking past the camera into a mirror, or if this is really just his way of telling the story. The moth on his chest has scabbed over and is starting to peel. Craig reaches over the camera for a bottle of lotion, and he winces slightly as he rubs a thin layer over his newest tattoo. It gives Token a chance to view the rest of Craig's canvas. One of Craig's first tattoos was his neck, something that shocked many of the residents of South Park. The intricate skull of an animal (guinea pig, Craig often corrects people) is surrounded by deep red roses and bright green foliage, encircling his neck and reaching up towards his large, stretched ears, which have been hanging empty for at least a year now. Craig has a small black anchor tattooed under his left eye, but people don't seem to notice it as much as they notice his neck. He steps back, more of his body coming into frame and Token's eyes glance up to make sure he's still alone in his room. His friend is tall. Really tall. In fact, Craig Tucker is the tallest person in South Park, Colorado, bringing home the trophy at an uncomfortable six foot four, and his stretched out, lanky form barely fits in the fram. Craig's long arms are both mostly covered in unrelated and unconnected tattoos. A camera, a ship, a tree, leading down to large, noisy hands that carry roses and obscenities. Just above where his hand is brushing aimlessly against his thigh, there is a gun tattoed on to Craig's hip bone, and beside it, the words "animal life" in an ornate font. Most of his right thigh is dedicated to the Virgin Mary, and his left, the outline of Colorado. When he is finished tending to his wounded chest, he backs away and collapses into bed, the mattress ending several inches before his legs do.

Token fast forwards through Craig sleeping, the increased speed making him look fitful. Sporadically inked calves kick out from under his comforter, his pillow alternates between under and above his head. He tosses and turns and after a few hours of sleep, his alarm goes off. Token has spent the last hour half-heartedly working on a homework assignment for his Documentary Film History class. When Craig reluctantly pulls himself from his bed, Token brings the footage to full screen once more.

He seems to be regretting not taking that shower now, dragging a hand through thick, greasy black hair. His fingernails scratch at the buzzed undercut that stretches three inches up from the top of his ears. Apparently, it'll do, as Craig shrugs and reaches for his work uniform where it hangs off his desk chair.

The PetSteps uniform is obnoxiously bright and pretentious but Craig's purple polo is over-worn and faded, the collar having lost all of its hold and the button holes stretched too far to keep it shut over his collarbone, giving him none of the "trustworthy animal expert" vibe its supposed to, despite those exact words being printed in white block lettering across his back. He tucks the atrocity into a pair of black slacks that have a large hole in the right knee. Token chuckles to himself, knowing Kyle would disapprove.

Craig grabs the camera and heads into the bathroom, setting the camera down so that Token is forced to study yellowing floral wallpaper to the sound of his best friend taking a piss.

Token follows Craig downstairs and into the kitchen. They stare into a mostly empty fridge for several seconds before Craig grabs a can of Monster from the back and a store-brand poptart from the pantry.

The Canon sits in the passenger seat while Craig blasts the heat in the car. He pulls a pack of cigarettes out of the center console and lights one before rolling the window down just enough to let the smoke out. Token watches Craig take one drag before his friend is grabbing for the camera once more. The responsible student in Token cringes when Craig wedges the it against the dashboard, but the artist in him appreciates it, and he flies with Craig down a snowy highway 9.

16:37:00 Nov 16 2012

"How are the cat cans coming?"

Craig resists the urge to throw a middle finger over his shoulder and instead twists his neck just enough to see the tall redhead standing over him eying his work. "Flawlessly," He responds, turning until he's sitting cross-legged on the cold linoleum floor, which only serves to make Kyle look more annoyed.

Kyle, in his short sleeved button down purple manager shirt, has his hands on his hips as he looks down his long nose at Craig, his big red hair a halo of some self-righteous biblical prophet. Craig hates him. He really, truly hates him. It's a fucking curse to be stuck working with Kyle Broflovski, who is the only person other than Victor Fitzgerald, the owner, who has a higher position than Craig. Craig is a mere keyholder after a year and a half of PetSteps employment, but he has responsibilities and he can tell the high school students what to do, which is always at least somewhat gratifying.

"Good," Kyle says in a clipped tone. He eyes the rolling cart stacked with trays of wet cat food cans. "You have a customer."

Craig glances over at the registers and sees Mrs. Stevens holding a large bag of cat litter and glaring around the store. He groans and climbs to his feet, walking away from Kyle. He cautiously lifts the bag out of Mrs. Stevens' arms and sets it on the counter before ringing her up. Kyle comes up behind her and with a charming smile asks if he could carry the bag to her car for her and she thanks him.

Craig is alone in the store for a few precious moments. He can't bring the camera to work, but he pulls his iPhone from his back pocket and turns on video record, aching to simulate the feeling of power the Canon gives him. Craig leaves the register and heads over to the small animals, putting his can project on hiatus. After all, it's one more hour until close and the cat cans are an eternal project. He can resume tomorrow when he comes in.

He pulls his key ring from his belt loop and unlocks the glass cages, pulling them from the wall like dresser drawers. He looks down into the rectangle and a Silkie Guinea Pig stares up at him with black eyes. Craig aims his iPhone at the creatures for a few moments before he pockets it and reaches into the cage, scooping the furry little girl out.

Craig holds her in one hand-Coraline, he's named her-and grooms her with his other hand, stroking her long hair and scratching her forehead. She crawls onto his chest and Craig shuts her cage, cradling her against him and sitting on the floor. She climbs up over his shoulder and around the back of his neck, standing and dragging her claws down the buzzed back of his head. Craig cringes and grabs Coraline, setting her on the floor.

She walks in a few curious circles before Craig carefully stands and takes out another guinea pig, a brown girl he hasn't named yet and lets her down with Coraline. He picks up his phone and films them wandering around on the floor.

"What are you doing? What happened to the cans?"

Kyle is glaring at him from the door. Craig gives him a look and ignores him, focusing on his video of the guinea pigs on the ground, picking up the flecks of dust and garbage, and chewing.

"What are they eating? That's disgusting. Craig, pick them up."

Craig sighs and scoops the girls up, placing the brown rodent back in her cage and setting Coraline on his shoulder as he walks toward the back of the store and out of Kyle's sight. It doesn't matter where he's going, as long as he's away from Kyle. The store isn't very large by pet store standards, but that means in order to have a lot of product, the aisles are cramped and difficult to navigate for anyone but a regular. It's easy to get lost down them and Craig has never had a problem wandering into the reptile section and whipping out his phone to text Clyde or read an Ask Reddit thread. It's clear that Victor was going for a bright color scheme with the yellow walls and red shelves, but the shelving units reach up too high to let the bright fluorescents reflect off them properly. It's a comfortable space for Craig, even more so since it seems to make their customers uncomfortable, but there are no other pet stores in South Park and they seem to be scarce in North and Middle Park, too, since PetSteps is near the border of South Park and no man's land along the 9 where North and Middle Park run. Craig wouldn't know, he hasn't been to either of those towns since he was a kid.

He faces dog food bags, ignoring the dig of sharp little guinea pig nails in his skin and occasionally reaching up to pet Coraline, which seems to calm her tense grip.

Kyle passes him again as he's helping out a customer that Craig doesn't bother to really look at and can't remember what they asked for, but other than that, Craig is in the clear as the store's business hours wind down. He pulls out his phone and shoots a text to Clyde, "I hate working with Kyle." He suspects he's sent this exact text or variations of it to Clyde maybe fifty times in the past, but he feels it can never be stated enough. Besides, he doesn't use Twitter or Facebook so Clyde is the perfect outlet. Craig has never asked if it's okay or bothered to apologize, but Clyde has mentioned more than once that he doesn't mind, so Craig feels comfortable sending him the kinds of thoughts that are generally considered too trivial to share.

Not too much later, Clyde responds, "Sorry bro :( Imagine putting a guinea pig in his hair?" A few seconds later, Clyde shuts down Craig's thought process, "Don't actually do it!" Craig rolls his eyes and pockets his phone.

The last hour of being open before closing passes quickly, he spends most of the time reading ingredients on the back of dog treat bags, and Craig only has to ring up one customer. Before long, he's locking the door and pushing the squeaky cat can cart into the backroom where he can see Kyle doing paperwork in the office. The redhead looks up at him and down at his wrist watch. "Alright," He says as he stands and Craig walks away before Kyle gets the impression that they can walk together to the front of the store.

Kyle hits a few buttons and opens the register. Craig knows the code, he's a closer when Kyle and Victor aren't there, but he still has to observe someone else doing it. The lights in the store dim, and Craig has to lean back against the counter for space to watch Kyle count his till. His fingers move at an unreal speed. It almost seems impossible that Kyle could count the cash that flies through his fingers in a fan, especially with those long, bony digits. Kyle's hands may be thin, but his arms are slim and solid looking. Craig knows Kyle plays basketball, he, Clyde, Stan, Gary, and Token used to shoot hoops after school every once in a while in high school, which annoyed Craig because basketball was stupid and he wasn't built to play sports, so he'd chain smoke in the parking lot on cold days waiting for Token and Clyde to be finished. Somewhere in Kyle's weird viney body are muscles and a shadow of a farmer's tan. God, he hates him.

"Count this," Kyle says, not looking at him but handing him the wad of cash, their palms touching uncomfortably, as he moves onto the coins. Craig hesitates before taking it from him. Craig has to count slower, slap each bill on the counter and mouth the numbers. He's bad at math like he is at most things, but it's just another shitty thing about himself. He learns to deal.

Craig eyes Kyle over his counting process, in between the fives and the tens, and takes in his big-ish ears hidden under his hair and his big nose. Kyle looks ridiculous. It's amazing that he thinks he's so damn great. Craig returns to counting and the second he finishes, Kyle asks, "How much?"

"$105."

Kyle looks up at the computer then grabs the bills from Craig's hands and counts them again. He watches Kyle note on the register slip, "$110."

Craig goes to point out the intentional mucking of his mediocre register scores, but realizes Kyle is just avoiding conversation, which is a miraculous thing that Kyle seemed to only recently learn how to do. They used to bicker constantly, and it typically started with Kyle trying to make what he probably thought was casual conversation, but Craig hates small talk. Craig hates most and all people so the idea of chit chatting just to fill space and a cultural idea of formalities is stupid. Now, rather than have a conversation about what Craig's doing wrong, he just corrects it.

Kyle bags all the money up and returns to the back office, leaving Craig alone again.

Craig sets Coraline down on the counter and pulls out his phone, filming her as she grooms herself and then straightening up and panning the lens around the store. It's an odd place, but it's kind of warm to him. He likes familiarity. Craig leaves Coraline where she is so he can travel up and down the aisles. He debates panning up and down to get the full effect, but the narrow aisles and tall shelves get the point across best when he's moving straight ahead. As he walks the store, he notices a few things out of place but doesn't bother to fix them.

He stands in the small, dark aquatics section, where with the lights dimmed after close, the area illuminated by the blue backlights in the tanks. Craig stands in the darkness, holding his phone up to the wall of tanks and tries to focus on them properly. He knows the Canon camera could probably do it, but he tries anyway.

Sometimes in Craig's life, the same thing day after day, he sees things in illuminating colors. Sometimes he imagines everything isn't so drab. He's never been much into comic books, but video games are a good way to pass time and movies are pretty cool. His imagination is limited, but standing in the aquatics section after close always make him feel heavy. He could stand there all night if it didn't make him so uncomfortable.

"Craig? Are you done? Can you put the guinea pig away?"

He pockets his phone and sweeps his eyes across the tanks one more time before heading to the front of the store. Kyle is waiting with a Northface jacket pulled over his uniform and his trapper hat over his wild hair, his lips curled down. Coraline is trying to climb the register and Craig picks her up and carries her to the small animals section. He gingerly sets her down in her tank and walks deliberately slow to the back to clock out.

When he finally reaches the front of the store, Kyle is standing with his key in the door and buried in his phone. Craig decides against jibing at him, that's too much like small talk, and he opens the door himself and walks away, hearing Kyle step out the lock it behind him. Kyle doesn't bother to say anything to him. Sometimes they make eye contact an acknowledgement of parting, but this time it's nothing. It's easier to Craig to push the work part of his day out of mind if he just leaves it without preamble.

Craig walks around to the back where his car is parked in the small lot and climbs in, turning the dials on the heat and the radio to get the warm air blasting and the fuzzy Denver alt rock station blasting. He speeds home with the windows down.

11:14:59 Nov 17 2012

Token listens as Kyle leans back his desk chair. He cracks his back and sighs audibly. Token spins around in his own chair to face him.

"How's the paper?"

"Tedious," Kyle shrugs, pushing his laptop away from him and marking the page in his text book before setting it on top of the spare desk in Token's basement that has practically become his in the past few years. He spends more time at his friend's working on homework than in his actual house, where his focus is scattered. When Kyle started spending more time at Token's house, looking for a refuge from his eighty hours a week at school and work, Token bought him a desk and a chair and cleared space for him in his cluttered studio. They spend many evenings here, Token editing one project or another, and Kyle quietly and dutifully working his way towards an Associates in Social Work. "What are you doing now?"

"Taking notes," Token answers, swinging a pad of yellow lined paper around in his hand and using it to gesture at his screens. Craig almost never stops filming and Token is a few days behind him, trying to work his way through all of the footage by playing two six-hour chunks of his day side by side on the monitors. He takes note of time stamps of important scenes or particular shots he finds intriguing.

Kyle's eyes seem to be curiously taking in the footage. He is not unfamiliar with Token watching and editing footage of his old classmates and fellow South Park residents, but Token knows Kyle has a strained relationship with Craig, and it has to be interesting to see him in his own habitat. One screen plays through a party Craig went to a few nights before. Token has watched it once or twice already, but there are a few good shots of high school alumni and he's cutting portions to prepare for his Thanksgiving party. On the other screen, he fast forwards through Craig's drive home from dropping Savannah off. At double time, he moves up the stairs and loses his jeans as he closes his bedroom door. The camera assumes it's usual position on the desk, and Craig sits down there, opening his laptop and staring at the screen. Token lets it run at regular speed.

Eternally concerned with the business of others, Kyle wheels his chair over to Token's desk and takes a break from his homework. Token pulls a few shots of Stan and Kenny laughing with Gary, who seems to be charming them with an anecdote. He grabs a few seconds of Esther and Milly dancing to someone's laptop speakers, knowing they have to be pretty drunk to let go like this. It's ordinary footage, but he knows it will make people smile and coo at the screen Wednesday night.

"What the fuck is that!"

Token's attention is brought to the other monitor when Kyle shouts and points. Token sighs, pressing his lips together and nodding knowingly. "That," he explains to his friend, "is masturbation."

Kyle watches, his mouth open in horror. Craig has moved from the desk to his bed, bringing his laptop with him. His boxers are already pulled down beneath his hips and he absentmindedly strokes himself as he scrolls through porn websites. He settles on a video and leans back against his headboard.

"That's gay porn, Token. Those are two men fucking."

"You are correct."

"How is this not freaking you out?" Kyle asks in disbelief. Token has simply gone back to editing on the other screen.

"It's just Craig doing what we all do all the time."

"Why does he film himself doing this?"

"He never turns the camera off," Token replies.

Despite the plethora of new information on his coworker, Kyle's fascination seems to wear off quickly, as did Token's the first time he saw this. Craig is not interesting when he masturbates. He spends up to an hour looking for the right video and when he finds it, he is lazy, lacking passion and will often lose focus and start staring at Tumblr on his phone rather than watching the video. Token went through this more than once, hoping for a little insight into the instinctual, feral part of Craig he rarely sees, but all he finds, time after time, is his best friend, disinterested and self-loathing. Despite his empty house, he keeps the porn on mute, playing shitty alternative rock to hide whatever sounds he thinks he may make. He stops periodically to try and find a new video, scratch his balls or eat a handful of hot cheetos. Watching Craig masturbate is like having teeth pulled: boring, uncomfortable, and frequently painful.

Kyle kicks away from the desk and returns to his homework.

Over an hour passes when Kyle notices that Craig is standing, his laptop closed on the bed. He is putting on his PetSteps uniform. The timestamp at the bottom of the film tells him this footage is from yesterday. Token knows Kyle worked with Craig last night, having received the video he took with his iPhone in a text message this morning.

"Did he come?" Kyle blurts out in frustration.

"No," Token says, glancing at his notes. "He tried for an hour and forty-one minutes before giving up."

"Oh my god!"

"Pretty typical. He spends a few hours doing this every day before he picks his sister up or goes to work. He almost never finishes. Just pulls up his pants and moves on. I know this routine. He'll try to take a piss, he'll eat a poptart, he'll drive to work."

Token studies Kyle's expression. He can see the thorny ball of pity sitting in his friend's throat.

"And I'll bet you anything he doesn't wash his hands."

Kyle spins around in his chair and gags into his open palms.

15:00:02 Nov 18 2012

He doesn't need an alarm to wake him up in time to pick Savannah up from school, but it serves as a reminder to rip him away from Skyrim and put on some pants. Craig saves, stands, stretches, and seeks out some clothes. A pair of loose black jeans hanging over his desk chair will do him just fine. He pulls them over his boxers and slips into sneakers. He grabs the video camera from where it sits on his desk, aimed at him playing the game for the past four hours, and checks the battery. It's getting low. He swaps it out for the alternate, which has been charging in a wall outlet, and carries the camera out of the room, letting the lens swoop to catch sight of Gideon and Lenora as he passes them. After he dropped Savannah off at school, he tried to sleep as he does most days, but he fell asleep sometime around one the night before because the movie he was watching wasn't as engaging as he thought it would be, and it dragged him into a pretty deep sleep. When he returned from his morning duty, he took a box of Food 4 Less brand Cheerios up to his room and browsed tumblr for a while before deciding on video games. It was a pretty normal day, and Craig was glad that he had it all to himself.

He climbs in his car and speeds off toward the high school, the camera lying on the seat watching him drive with the radio blasting. This time of day causes the drive to take longer than he wants it to, and he seems to hit every red light. As his car vibrates at the white line, Craig opens his phone and stares at Reddit until the lights turns green. He arrives just after her 4:15 pickup request, but when he sees the door to the band room shut tight, he texts her "What time?" Within a minute she responds, "4:45-ish." Craig groans and slides down in the seat.

After idling at the curb for a few minutes, he puts the car in park. There are signs all over that tell him not to do what he's doing, but he gets out of his car anyway. He's been sitting for most of the day, it feels nice to stretch his legs. He slips his hand into the strap on the video camera and faces the school, sure to capture the building in the shot the best he can from up so close.

Craig isn't only familiar with the band room's location because of his sister, but he mostly put his high school experience behind him. Before Craig narrowed his social circle down to only Token Black and Clyde Donovan, he had a few friends. They were more like good-ish acquaintances, but Craig has considered Jimmy Valmer, Kevin Stoley, and Jason Farmer to be people he doesn't hate too much. South Park High doesn't really have the teams for the band to support, but Jimmy made a pretty decent drum major and Kevin wasn't a bad tuba player. Craig would sometimes find himself sitting in the band room with them before class. He'd never say much, as always, but he didn't hate hanging out with them so long as Token or Clyde were there. Craig never woke up early to join his friends before class, but he heard it was fun, or as fun as waking up at six could be.

The lens passes over the door, blue and unassuming, like it could be a fire door if it wasn't for the fact that it would be propped open before and after the class as an invitation for its hyper-sexualized geeks to come and go, and moves onto a window into an empty classroom. Craig thinks he may have had a class in there once, possibly History or Spanish, but that isn't important. He steps up to the window and tries to focus the camera into the room despite the sun inching over to his side of the school building and reflecting on the glass. He can see enough of the room to be satisfactory, but it isn't quite right. He moves on.

Park County High is mostly one winding level. Beyond the classroom is a courtyard with a bench and a tree, banned stubs of cigarettes littering the ground beneath them. He always wanted to cut class and smoke illegally there, but it only worked out a few times and for only a few short moments. After all, there are windows into classrooms surrounding the courtyard, so there were always nosy kids or sadistic teachers, but sometimes that made it more fun. Craig would slouch on the bench with his knees wide and a cigarette between his lips knowing he was at the center of a hundred gazes. He was in plain sight and for a moment, no one noticed him, and then they all did. It was inspiring. It made him want to film.

Craig leaves the courtyard by following the small concrete path passed a few classrooms. One of them has a club going on, so he steps up to the window and films for a moment before a girl notices him. He simply moves on and he hits the several sets of doors leading to the foyer. He tries the doors but they are locked from the outside. Craig holds the camera to the small, cross hatched windows and shows the world the sparse trophy case of Park County High wins and the banners for Park County, and posters on the wall that urge students to attend basketball games and tennis matches to support the high school''s dying sports culture. Funding is down, and the Park County schools can mostly only afford to play each other, which initially started a huge feuding rivalry that was bogged down with boredom by the time Craig entered high school.

There are framed photographs of the classes that pass through. A double frame contains a photo of a freshman class and its senior picture four years later. In a school that only has between twenty and thirty kids per class, it's an intimate gesture. He can almost spot himself standing in the back row of a set of pictures. Always the tall kids, he, Token, Kyle, Milly, and Terrance Mephesto. The kids in the back always look stoic and freakish while the shorter kids look attractive. It's a rare occurrence when Eric Cartman is one of the best looking people in a group.

"Hey! What are you doing? Craig Tucker?"

Craig turns around and sees a teacher looking at him through an open classroom window. He realizes how suspicious he must look, so he turns the camera on the teacher before turning and walking back to his car. Just as the teacher is leaving his sight, he recognizes him as Mr. Mackey, who moved over to the high school as guidance counselor and substitute teacher. Craig speeds up his pace a bit a climbs back in his car, locking the doors and looking down at the camera in his hands. The last thing he needs is someone talking to him, especially an adult who's known him all his life.

He turns the key in the ignition, ready to pull away from the curb and wait elsewhere, but the band room door opens and a few kids file out. Craig decides he can wait for Savannah, assuming she doesn't take forever to leave.

In a few moments, Savannah walks out with two friends, a boy and a girl that Craig vaguely recognizes. He's pretty bad with faces and he thinks Savannah has a lot of friends, but he can't really be sure. Craig and Savannah make eye contact and she stops to talk to her friends. Craig groans and turns the camera on them.

She's chatting with a short black haired boy and an extremely tall and stooping blonde girl. Savannah is kind of a cool girl, Craig knows she's smart and she was in an almost-relationship with a boy on the baseball team, but she has her band friends too, and they seem pretty far beneath her on the social chain. Savannah is about as impassive as Craig is, but often times he doesn't understand her. She's smart, she's cold, and yet she still hangs around other kids and manages to smile about it. It seems very strange.

Some other kids are leaving the band room, and Craig eyes them all through the LCD screen on the camera. He doesn't recognize any of them, which is probably a good thing. Savannah laughs a little and looks at Craig. She catches sight of the camera and rolls her eyes. She approaches the car, leaving her friends on the sidewalk. She knocks on the window. Craig doesn't roll it down or turn the camera away from her.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Frankenstein?" She says through the muffling glass.

Craig watches her get flustered, her pale eyebrows knitted and angry. Her friends are watching over her shoulder, looking blatantly uncomfortable about the whole thing. Savannah is always like this so her friends ought to get used to it.

"We need a ride, creep. Drop us off at Ike's house. Craig!"

He unlocks the door and Savannah climbs in the front seat, leaving her awkward friends to come forward and get in the backspace. He doesn't apologize for the broken seatbelt on the side, just lets the girl try to latch it for the entire ride, Savannah giving loud instructions as Craig navigates the simple roads. The camera is set on the dash, facing everyone in the car. Savannah complains about it, but doesn't do anything. "This is what I've been talking about. See? I'm not making this up. My brother is insane."

Neither kid in the back says anything, and Craig doesn't imagine they will. He eyes them through the rearview mirror. There is a possibility that Savannah has been friends with them for years as Craig is unobservant, but they're both looking out of their respective windows, probably trying to avoid the direct gaze of the camera, which is kind of annoying but Craig can work with the occasional reluctant subject. It makes the film more real.

Savannah demands he pulls up in front of a olive green house marked 1002. When Craig stops the car, everyone hastily climbs out. Savannah stares at him for a moment before she says, "I'll have Ike's brother drop me off or something," and slams the door.

Craig films her as she joins her friends following the boy inside. He sets the video camera back on the dash after the front door shuts and he drives off back toward his house. South Park is small and winding, and he only has to make a few turns through the neighborhood before he's pulling into his driveway. It's only a few steps before he's back in his room and can bury himself in Skyrim again. It's always nice to have a day off from work.

20:30:09 Nov 19 2012

PetSteps is painfully quiet tonight. It's supposed to snow tonight, and no matter how many years people have spent in the frozen Hell that is South Park, people still act like the world is ending when another foot of snow is announced. Very few customers come in on nights like these. Those who do, are in a panic and stock up on pet food for the next three months. They're a half hour from closing and Craig is bored. He wishes he could sit down and stare at Reddit on his phone, his feet hurt and verifying the prices on pet shampoo is a tedious job. He finds himself picking each bottle up and reading every ingredient to pass the time, a bad habit he's formed in the past few years.

"Can we go home yet?"

Craig turns around from where he's standing in front of the grooming salon and glares at the cash register where Fillmore is standing, looking bored. He's irritated by the question mostly because wants to leave just as much as Fillmore does, but Kyle opens in the morning, and if it's obvious Craig let them leave early, he's going to be facing a hot-tempered red head in the morning and most likely, he'll be too hungover to tolerate it. A high school kid he's met a few times is throwing a little party tonight. There should be a good amount of his old classmates there, and he knows he can get a little footage for Token's project. He wonders if that's why Fillmore wants to get out of here, too. Firkle and Fillmore are probably around the same age, if not in the same class. Part of Craig is disgusted with being twenty-one and attending the parties thrown by local seventeen year olds, but that's the definition of South Park: the young run the town and the adults act like children.

"Have you been facing?"

"Yes," Fillmore sighs. "All day. It's been dead."

"Stay on register. I'm going to walk your section and make sure it's done right."

Craig fingers the ring of keys clipped to his hip as he walks away from the register, as if the tinkling of metal was meant to remind Fillmore that Craig is in charge right now. Not many of his coworkers take him seriously. They will begrudgingly take direction to work a certain part of the store or to take their lunch break, but most of the high schoolers he's in charge of have learned rather quickly that Craig is about as interested in the success of the store as they are. He can feign regard for the rotation of expiration dates on bags of dog treats or the way the leashes have been reorganized at the end of the night, but the bottom line is that all Craig really cares about is making sure no one touches the guinea pigs but himself and that they get out of the store no later than 9:15 pm.

He's already counted all of the tills, so he cringes when he hears a customer enter the store. He's going to have to recount Fillmore's, but that's okay. As along as he finishes everything else, they should be able to get out of here far before the typical 10:30 pm that Kyle drags their nights to. He fetches a mop and bucket from a storage room and does not bother to change the opaque grey water. The store doesn't look terrible, so all Craig has to do is spot mop up the piss left by irresponsible dog owners and straighten the occasional can of dog food. It takes him twenty minutes to check each aisle, including the five minutes it took him to help the customer find their particular formula of cat food to best suite their fat ass, hairball gagging, finicky cat. The store is acceptable at best; it's not the PetSteps of Kyle's fantasies, but he'll just have to jerk off to something else tomorrow morning, because Craig wants to get out of here.

"Are we all clear?" Craig asks loudly from the back of the store when he hears the door open and close again.

"All clear!" is Fillmore's hopeful answer.

"Lock the door and bring your till to the office," Craig tells him, pushing the mop back to the utility closet. While in there, he opens a fridge that contains nothing but perishable pet food. He reaches beyond a few tubs of mealworms to grab at a bag of carrots. Snagging two, he leaves the room and stops by the guinea pigs, handing one carrot to a wheeking Coraline and picking up the small brown girl for a moment. She is purring quietly and Craig smiles. She's starting to open up. "Celeste," he names her aloud. "I brought you a carrot."

"Hurry the fuck up," Fillmore shouts from the office, "or I'm going to start pocketing this cash."

Craig knows it's an empty threat so he rolls his eyes and takes a few moments to continue loving on the pigs before giving them both their treats and locking the cage for the night. "Eat it all," he warns them. "I don't want to get in trouble for giving you extra."

In the office, Fillmore leans back against the door and Craig flips through the cash without really counting it. He hands it to Fillmore and tells him to count it. When the teenager tells him "$220" Craig writes it down, handing him another pile of uncounted cash. The numbers look believable, so Craig shuts down the registers from the back computer and bags the day's cash. He opens the heavy metal door under the desk and trades the bag of money for the Canon, which has been patiently waiting out his shift in the safety of the PetSteps safe.

"Okay," Craig says, slamming it shut. "Let's go. Out the back door, God forbid there's a customer trying to get in."

They dress in their winter clothes as they walk from the office to the back of the store, the camera being passed back and forth between Craig's hands as he pulls on a hoodie and a cheap, fake black leather jacket he found at a thrift store last week. He sets the camera down on a shelf for long enough to unlock the back door and pull his hat on. Fillmore is gone, in his car and peeling out of the small parking lot. It's snowing pretty heavily already, but Craig leaves his gloves in his pocket. He looks through the viewfinder of the camera, observing his lonely white car sitting in the dark parking lot, lit slightly by one streetlight that's across the highway. A breeze blows some of the new dusting towards him and he feels flakes melt against his ankles as the wind travels a few inches up the legs of his slacks. November is the worst in South Park.

In the car, Craig has to rock back and forth with his hands pressed between his thighs for a moment. It is freezing and the heater is still blowing cold air. He is too cold to pick up his phone, so he reads the warning label about the airbags in his car. He wonders if they'd actual deploy anymore. As soon as the air blowing is slightly warmer than the air of the car, Craig disrobes. He pulls off his work shirt and replaces it with a heather grey v-neck. He puts his navy blue hoodie back on but leaves the jacket off, just grabbing his gloves out of the pocket and shoving them into his cup holder. He kicks out of his slacks and pulls on a pair of jeans that have been living in his car the past few weeks. He wasn't planning on changing his pants, but the parakeets shit all over him while he was cleaning the cage. He smells the denim stretched over his thighs after he fastens them. They don't smell great, but it's better than feces.

21:22:12 Nov 19 2012

Craig doesn't know Firkle that well, but he's probably at his house once a month. He knows he's a senior at Park County High. He knows he's the colorful and eccentric Mexican kid that likes to party. He knows his parents go out of town frequently. That all adds up to Craig knowing exactly how to get to his house for the frequent parties Firkle throws.

He has to park his car almost a whole block down, the street already packed with the borrowed and beaten up automobiles of South Park's youth. Clearly this party is larger than he expected.

To battle the bite of the nighttime cold, Craig lights a cigarette as he walks. He films the inside of each car as he passes it, trying to make guesses at whose it is by the contents of the vehicle. He sees what is clearly Fillmore's car, his purple work shirt thrown over the passenger seat, discarded until the next time he must wear it, much like Craig did a few minutes earlier. Craig passes the car of an athlete, zooming in briefly on a PCH basketball bag and shoulder pads in the backseat. He films the interior of a car that is decorated in a furry leopard steering wheel cover and another that has a large, neon green pair of fuzzy dice. Craig frowns at the conventional expression of South Park's bourgeois. Whenever he passes a car that would list for more than five grand at the used car lot on the edge of town, Craig doesn't bother to turn the camera to it; it's clearly the driver's parents'. Right outside of Firkle's house, Craig sees Stan Marsh's car. He peers the lens through the window and finds nothing of interest, but Craig stops there to finish his cigarette. After the last drag, Craig pushes the slow burning butt into a bank of snow that has been pushed up along the curb. He knows when the snow finally melts in the late Spring, hundreds of cigarettes will litter the streets of South Park. For now, they disregard.

He taps his fingers on the hood of Stan's 2006 Black Jeep Liberty and turns to head inside. There is a handwritten note telling him to "come in and close the door. It's fucking cold outside."

As soon as Craig enters the house, he realizes this may have been a bad idea. There are masses of people he does not recognize. He lowers his camera and holds it to his chest, protecting it from wandering elbows or sloshing drinks. It is sweltering with the number of bodies in the house and Craig pulls his jacket off, draping it over his shoulder so he doesn't have to leave it on the communal coat hook in the front. Bits of conversation answer Craig's confusion about the quantity of people. These are friend's of Firkle's; many are a year or two older than him and back from their first year of college. They're home earlier than all of the students from his class, but he supposes his friends did this their first year of university too; they get back fast so they can brag about getting out. They're spewing lore about what they've been up to, how cool Los Angeles, Chicago, Seattle, Houston is, how much they've changed. Craig quickly feels himself growing irritated, so he moves in a direct line towards the kitchen for a drink.

Firkle's house is larger than a lot of the homes in South Park, but it's crowded tonight, and Craig feels himself growing claustrophobic. He has to push through the thin pockets of space between the various clusters of friends catching up. As always, many eyes fall to Craig. These kids were still in middle school when Craig was graduating high school, so very few of them have seen the absurdly tall, dark haired man covered in tattoos. He realizes by the looks of confusion from a few of the party-goers that a lot of these kids must be from Middle Park. Most South Park residents don't flinch at his appearance anymore. The gazes don't linger for long though, too occupied with recounting the tales of freshman glory. They're smiling, laughing, flirting, tilting their heads back and draining their red plastic cups. There is nothing of interest to film here.

Finally, he reaches the kitchen table. Pointing the camera at the twenty some bottles of alcohol, Craig feels relieved that it'll go mostly unnoticed that he didn't bring anything. One handed, he pours himself a sprite and vodka and takes a heavy sip before topping it off.

"Craig M-m-mother fucking Tucker!"

A metal crutch thunks against the back of Craig's calves and he turns around to face Jimmy Valmer, who is leaning forward and grinning at him from several feet below.

"Oh," Craig hesitates, "Hey."

"Nice camera! Is it yours? An upgrade, huh?"

"Token's," Craig nods. "We're working on a new project."

Jimmy seems to be contemplating that statement, staring Craig up and down in that judgmental way he always did in high school, standing a little too close, and rocking forward on his crutches whenever he's about to speak. Craig regrets saying anything, and hopes Jimmy drops the subject.

"W-well?! How've you been?"

"Fine, I guess," Craig begins, but he is interrupted by Jason, who walks over to them from the other side of the kitchen. He is double fisting beers, and offers one to Jimmy, who takes a sip and hands it back. Craig glares at Jason, constantly irritated by the presence of the other man. His inability to stand Jason began in high school, around the time that a haircut and some well fitting clothes skyrocketed Jason into the ranks of the most attractive men at school. Since then, Craig's hatred has grown, and it takes just one wide smile over his artistically scruffy jawline to put Craig in a foul mood.

"Craig! How's South Park been?" Jason asks. "Are you still working at PetSteps?"

"It's fine, and yes," Craig answers. He lifts his cup to his lips and downs half of it, hoping the alcohol will dull the grating voices of his old high school friends. They are staring at him, and Craig realizes they're waiting.

"Um, how's school?"

That's all it takes. Jimmy and Jason launch into alternating stories about roommates, papers, parties, internships, and Craig is able to tune them out, nodding occasionally and nursing his drink. He used to be close to these guys, but it's been years. Their friendships began to fade long before they left for college, and Craig feels like this conversation is arbitrary and unnecessary. They only initiated this conversation to brag about their lives; Craig knows they're not interested in anything about his. He finishes his drink and pours himself another.

"Well, it's been great catching up," Craig says loudly, unsure if he's interrupting someone or filling a silence. He flashes a smile. "I'll see you guys around."

Camera in one hand and drink in the other, Craig moves as quickly towards the stairs as he can without spilling his drink. There are a few people sitting scattered on the steps, but for the most part, as he ascends the staircase, the density of human bodies per square foot lessens greatly. He is grateful to move away from the music and madness of the party downstairs. He films the dim hallway, three doors on either side and one on the end. A handsy couple disappears into one of the rooms and from another, emerges a girl with tears streaming down her face. She glares at Craig when he points the camera at her, and he flips her off as she jogs downstairs.

The last door on the right is Firkle's bedroom. Craig is familiar with its location, often ending up here when he attends his parties. The door is slightly ajar, and he pushes it open with his foot so he can slide inside. Leaning back on it, he closes the door behind him.

"Hey," Stan nods at him. "Join us."

The room is set up the same way most of South Park's young adults' rooms are. There is a twin bed pressed up against the wall that has the only window. There is a small desk and an office chair opposite of that, with a desk lamp and a few textbooks. For those with slightly affluent parents, like Firkle's, there is sometimes a small couch or futon by the door, and this is where Craig takes an open seat beside Stan. They are in a makeshift circle, some people sitting on the floor, but most elevated on an office chair or the edge of the bed. Craig makes note of Milly, Pete, Kenny, Michael and two kids he doesn't know, most likely because they're younger than he is. He points the camera at each face in the room until he is jarred out of the viewfinder.

"Come on, man. Put the fucking camera away. I don't need this shit on record."

Craig glares at Kenny, and goes through the motions of powering his camera down before setting it on the floor between his feet. Kenny seems to be skeptical, but doesn't call Craig out on the camera that is still recording from the floor.

"Alright," Kenny says, picking up a conversation that Craig's presence apparently interrupted. He is facing Michael and digging through a backpack that is hooked over his thighs. "What did you want?"

Craig watches the exchange happening in front of him, adjusting the Canon between his shoes so that he can check in the viewfinder and ensure that it is capturing the wad of cash leave Michael's hands and slide into the front pocket of Kenny's overworn, acid wash jeans. Kenny reaches into his backpack and removes a ziploc bag and Craig estimates that it's probably an ounce of marijuana. "And one for the road," Kenny grins at him, passing his customer an already rolled joint.

Michael tucks his purchase away and sits back to light his blunt. He and Pete pass it back and forth for a few hits. They offer a pass to Stan who declines with a slight lift of his hand. He seems occupied with the brushed silver flask that hangs loosely in his grip. Craig watches him knock back another shot. Sitting closely beside him, he can smell the alcohol and it makes Craig long for more than the two drinks he currently has working for him. Milly is slouched back against the headboard of Firkle's bed, a small styrofoam cup in her hand. This alerts Craig to presence of good news, and his eyes shift back to Kenny.

"Yeah," Kenny answers the question behind his eyes. "I have more."

Craig digs for his wallet. He wasn't planning on making much of a purchase tonight, having hoped to work off of the kindness of stoners to get himself a good green high, but Kenny isn't always in stock of his favorite drug, so he knows he needs to get it while he can. Craig is not ignorant to the smirk on Kenny's face as he fingers through a stack of bills. South Park, a town seemingly stuck in the 70s, still has many shops that will only take cash. Residents are used to having a couple twenties in their pockets at all times. Craig is sure Kenny profits off of impulse buys all the time, just like he is now.

"What do you have?" Craig asks for clarification, the money in his hand and his camera strategically and inconspicuously capturing the scene.

"Prome with Code and DXM," Kenny answers. "Full bottles only."

"Fuck," Craig groans. "How much for the good stuff?"

"One hundred a bottle."

"Come on!" Craig protests. He looks to Stan for help, who shakes his head and refuses to be a part of it.

"It's only ten bucks for a bottle of Robitussin. Your choice."

Of course, he gives in. Craig hands Kenny five twenties and Kenny passes back a palm-sized plastic bottle, containing a thick red liquid prescribed to a name he's never heard before. He briefly considers trying circumvent Kenny and get a prescription for cough syrup himself, but he knows from experience it's almost impossible to fake strep. He wonders how Kenny gets ahold of so many bottles at a time. Fake IDs? Malpractice? Regrettably, Craig must admit to himself that is doesn't have the motivation to deal drugs, despite the pay off. There's a bottle in Milly's hand, and another sitting between Wes and Michael. That means Kenny has already made well over three-hundred dollars tonight, and that isn't counting all of the weed.

"And, for free," Kenny adds, as if trying to ease the burn of the purchase. "Supplies."

Craig leaves the couch, and abandons his camera, for just long enough to brew his potion. In a small styrofoam cup, Craig pours an inch of the maroon syrup and pads the rest of the cup with Sprite. Craig chooses a cherry jolly rancher from the bag on the floor and unwraps it, popping the candy in his mouth and sucking for a few seconds before spitting it into his drink. By the time he is back on the couch, Craig feels aroused with anticipation.

Stan offers his flask for a toast, and Craig shakes his head, but lifts his cup regardless. "Clink," Craig adds apathetically, and together, he and Stan drink.

Any conversation that happens in Firkle's bedroom that night goes entirely unnoticed by Craig. After a cup and a half, Craig is leaning back against the couch, his eyes half shut. His body feels heavy, but he is entirely carefree. His shoes fit just right, his jeans feel warm and embrace him in a way that makes Craig believe he could wear this pair of jeans for the rest of his life. The couch seems to gently sway beneath him, and a weak smirk creeps across Craig's lips as he rides the euphoria of a codeine high. He is high enough now that he doesn't taste the medicine in his mix, and Craig finishes his second cup, taking the jolly rancher between his lips and rolling it back and forth in his mouth. His eyes fall shut and Craig counts the beats of his heart until he loses track. When his eyes reopen, the room seems to have shifted, the walls illuminated blue. His body tingles and vibrates softly as he looks around and sees that Kenny is at the desk, poking around on Firkle's computer and answering a text. Wes and Michael have vanished, but Milly and the kids he doesn't know are on the bed, quietly laughing about something. Stan is now laying prone on the couch beside Craig. He seems to be asleep. That is usually Craig's signal that it's time to go home. He checks his camera, and it reads 01:02:12 Nov 20 2012. He could wait out this high here, or he could enjoy it at home. Craig stands, grabs his camera, and leaves without saying goodbye.

17:00:01 Nov 20 2012

Token does not spin around in his chair when he hears Kyle descending the stairs to his studio, too occupied with a thought that seems to be just out of reach. His pencil hovers over a piece of paper, his eyes locked on a footage of Craig sitting in his bed, slouched against the wall.

"Your mom made us some chocolate milk," Kyle chuckles, setting a glass down beside Token. Kyle takes his own cup to his desk, placing it down gently before systemically pulling textbooks out of his bag and stacking them in order of priority.

Token finally releases the breath he has been holding, his wrestling thoughts unable to come to an agreement. He takes a long sip of the milk and leans back in his seat, eyes still locked on the screen.

Craig is scrolling through a folder on the desktop of his computer labeled "to watch." Many of the films in the folder are ones Token has recommended. Others, things Craig has either learned about online or randomly selected based on title. All of them have been pirated. He chooses something with a title in another language and Token rolls his eyes. Craig has a thing for films with pretty colors, and not a whole lot of story. He doesn't doubt the potential of a foreign film to have a good plot, but Craig never reads the subtitles. In fact, Token would bet money that Craig intentionally watches foreign films so he can ignore the plot. Token watches the screen and through the eyes of the Canon on Craig's bedside table, he watches Craig, watch a film with a windy beach and a gloomy sky. What bullshit.

"How was work?" Token asks, finally turning to face Kyle.

"Fine, until Craig got there, and then it was shit," Kyle grins. Token knows he's teasing, but he also knows there's a wicked streak in Kyle- a part of him that can see right through Craig to his very core, and Token isn't sure Kyle always likes what he sees there. "He pissed some customer off by refusing to take his coupon that expired yesterday. I know, Craig- I know he'll take expired coupons; I'm the one fucking counting his registers each week. He refused this coupon just so this fucker would ask to speak to a manager, because he knew I was trying to get a headstart on this paper tonight and Craig doesn't have enough going on in his own life that he has to try to knock people who do."

"Easy, babe," Token chuckles.

"Sorry," Kyle says sincerely. "Sometimes I forget he's your friend."

"I can imagine he's hard to work with," Token acknowledges, watching as Craig aimlessly digs his hands into a bag of microwave popcorn.

"Technically," Kyle corrects him, "you work with him all the time."

"He's hard to work with," Token nods, smirking at his friend.

Kyle's focus seems to be drawn away from his work and to Token's screen. The way the camera is positioned, all they can see is a tilted view of Craig's laptop screen and his arms from the elbow down. Token watches as Craig pauses the film occasionally, taking screenshots of frames he finds appealing. Craig seems to like scenes where the subject is off center. This particular film is using a lot of negative space, and Token watches as Craig's fingers hit the hot keys repeatedly.

"He puts on a good act for me, though," Token indulges. "I think he tries to intentionally piss you off because he knows you're better than he is."

"At what? Entry-level pet store management?"

"No, being twenty-two in South Park, Colorado."

Kyle doesn't say anything, shrugging as he checks a text message on his phone. Eventually, Kyle wheels his chair back to his desk and continues his work on his homework.

Token watches Craig watch his movie for nearly half an hour before he drags his pencil and pad of paper back towards him. He draws circles, triangles and squares, trying to formulate his thoughts.

"How would you describe him?" Token asks, breaking the silence.

"Who?"

"Craig Tucker."

Kyle sits back in his chair, glancing at Token before his eyes slide to the screen. Craig's film is just coming to an end, and he closes Quicktime just as the credits begin to roll.

"Arrogant and presumptuous," Kyle says. "Insolent."